dawn

That's when it happens. Maybe it was my argument. Maybe it was my scary zeal. Whatever the reason, as soon as Megan whistles, the crowd is on its feet.They're blowing bubbles. They're raising their lighters high. They're cheering through their fangs...For Dawn Summers, for themselves and each other, for every sibling who got tossed into a situation beyond her control.For me.And for my sister, who whistles again...Once more with feeling.

She was his dawn of bliss He was her dusk of wounds,Each day they came up to See and touch They couldn't stay for long But they looked perfect together ~

SELF HELPUse the same amount of energy required to pull others down, to uplift yourself insteadKamil Ali

...before the dawn I leave the night behind meand before my heart I let you leave me behind.- from the poem 'Behind

I've often been sorry to see a night end, even while I have loved seeing the dawn come.

The dawn is your enemy.

Night was fading over the fields as if the rain had washed the darkness out of the hem of its garment.

There is a dead spot in the night, that coldest, blackest time when the world has forgotten evening and dawn is not yet a promise. A time when it is far too early to arise, but so late that going to bed makes small sense.

The nearer the dawnthe darker the night.

Why is it that night falls, instead of rising, like the dawn? Yet if you look east, at sunset, you can see night rising, not falling; darkness lifting into the sky, up from the horizon...

CHARADE PARADEA 'Special Day' once a year creates an excuse for neglect on the other 365 days for mothers, fathers & veterans

A crimson fire that vanquishes the stars;A pungent odor from the dusty sage;A sudden stirring of the huddled herds;A breaking of the distant table-landsThrough purple mists ascending, and the flareOf water ditches silver in the light;A swift, bright lance hurled low across the world;A sudden sickness for the hills of home.

IVREVEILLEWake: the silver dusk returningUp the beach of darkness brims,And the ship of sunrise burningStrands upon the eastern rims.Wake: the vaulted shadow shaatters,Trampled to the floor it spanned,And the tent of night in tatters Straws the sky-pavilioned land.Up, lad, up, 'tis late for lying:Hear the drums of morning play;Hark, the empty highways crying"Who'll beyond the hills away?"Towns and countries woo together,Forelands beacon, belfries call;Never lad that trod on leatherLived to feast his heart with all.Up, lad: thews that lie and cumberSunlit pallets never thrive;Morns abed and daylight slumberWere not meant for man alive.Clay lies still, but blood's a rover;Breath's a ware that will not keepUp, lad: when the journey's overThere'll be time enough to sleep.

...at dawn, the grains of sleep turn to floating black spots, then out of focus the world tilts, and the cat scratches at the door...

Bright morning comes; the bloody-fingered dawn with zealous light sets seas of air ablaze and bends to earth another false beginning. My eyes open like cornflowers, stick, crusted with their own stale dew, then take that light.

I walked along the shore in the morning light, the winds have slept in the arms of dawn after crying all night.

The sigh of all the seas breaking in measure round the isles soothed them; the night wrapped them; nothing broke their sleep, until, the birds beginning and the dawn weaving their thin voices in to its whiteness

When the twilight of all my evenings reaches me, after a long dark day, my complicated thoughts suffocate inside all of my uncomplicated longings. Evenings refuse to end. And the dawns that constantly swallow up my nights, always shows me an extremely long road I still need to tread, and discover. And get hurt.