Quotes About Wind

I should like to take the wind and water and sand as a motif and work with them, but it has to be simplified in most cases to colour and force lines, just as music has done with sound.

I enjoy the independence of single-handling a boat. I like controlling the elements, making the wind and the waves and the water work for me.

Night. Wind. Stars. Sea. Stones.

THE FIVE HUNDRED or so homes atop Acoma are still heated by wood, with mounded clay ovens outside that look like big beehives. The old timbered ladders, baked white by the sun, still rise to the top terraces, and there are deep footpaths along the tabletop of the rock. It is not a museum, but a living town, somewhat iced in time. The wind dominates all other sounds.

Sometimes the wind along the Pacific shore blows so hard it steals your breath before you can inhale it.

I think of how the mystics read by the light of their own bodies. What a world of darkness that must have been to read by the flaming hearts that turn into heaps of ash on the altar, how everything in the end is made equal by the wind. — Timothy Liu, from "Vox Angelica," The New Young American Poets (Southern Illinois University, 2000

He was high up now, gazing across to where Montmartre itself gazed out over the city. He was swept along in the wind, admiring the twin steeples of Notre-Dame as he passed, along with the dogged, devilish gargoyles of St. Jacques.

I am afraid that she is a coquette, for she is always flirting with the wind.

Silently we went round and round, And through each hollow mind The memory of dreadful things Rushed like a dreadful wind, And horror stalked before each man, And terror crept behind.

A rose shook in her blood and shadowed her cheeks. Quick breath parted the petals of her lips. They trembled. Some southern wind of passion swept over her and stirred the dainty folds of her dress. I love him, she said simply.

They walked softly, as men do instinctively at night. The lamp cast fantastic shadows on the wall and staircase. A rising wind made some of the windows rattle.

The studio was filled with the rich odour of roses, and when the light summer wind stirred amidst

The wind had blown the fog away, and the sky was like a monstrous peacock's tail, starred with myriads of golden eyes.

Expression is as necessary to me as leaf and blossoms are to the black branches of the trees that show themselves above the prison walls and are so restless in the wind. Between my art and the world there is now a wide gulf, but between art and myself there is none. I hope at least that there is none.

Bingo swayed like a jelly in a high wind.

I remember you as the wind that breathes upon the forest The murmur of leaves rustling The rays of the sun. I remember you as the power of trees growing And the bud breaking into bloosom. You are in my thoughts whenever i praise All that is noble and true.

Bicky rocked, like a jelly in a high wind.

But the southwest wind of Spring brings also remorse. We catch the vague spirit of unrest in the air and we regret our misspent youth.

Our driveway seemed darker than usual. I knew it was silly, but I kept looking around as I walked. Then something rustled in the trees overhead. That was enough for me. I took off running and didn't stop until I made it to the bottom of the boat ramp. Conditions at the marina weren't exactly ideal for a romantic conversation. The wind was howling, and the docks groaned as they rose and fell. Even so, it was better than trying to talk with Julie around.

And I, infinitesima­l being, drunk with the great starry void, likeness, image of mystery, I felt myself a pure part of the abyss, I wheeled with the stars, my heart broke loose on the wind.

The morning is full of storm in the heart of summer. The clouds travel like white handkerchiefs of goodbye, the wind, travelling, waving them in its hands. The numberless heart of the wind beating above our loving silence. Orchestral and divine, resounding among the trees like a language full of wars and songs.

Ti manderò un bacio con il vento e so che lo sentirai, ti volterai senza vedermi ma io sarò lì

But you, cloudless girl, question of smoke, corn tassel. You were what the wind was making with illuminated leaves. Behind the nocturnal mountains, white lily of conflagration, ah, I can say nothing!  You were made of everything.

Here is the solitude from which you are absent. It is raining. The sea wind is hunting stray gulls. The water walks barefoot in the wet streets. From that tree the leaves complain as though they were sick. White bee, even when you are gone, you live in my soul. You live again in time, slender and silent. Ah, you who are silent.