Quotes About Wind

Once you get over the culture shock, Filey is a pleasant spot, particularly at the beginning or end of the summer, when the hotels are half full. The brave go in winter, when the wind can be bitter and biting and Filey resumes its real life as a tiny, introverted fishing community.

Sweet, sweet burn of sun and summer wind, and you my friend, my new fun thing, my summer fling.

Sometimes when I'm with you, I remember things I lost when I was your age. Like I remember the sound of the rain and the smell of the wind.

He came like the wind, like the wind touched everything, and like the wind was gone. -from The Dragon Reborn. By Loial, son of Arent son of Halan, the Fourth Age.

Trying to control information in the network age is about as successful as pissing into the wind.

Fire hath its force abated by water, not by wind; and anger must be allayed by cold words, and not by blustering threats.

From cloud to sea to cloud, I climb The deer road through the leafless trees Under a wind that batters limb On limb, still roaring as it has Two nights and days, cold in slow spring. But ancient song in a wild throat Recalls itself and starts to sing In storm-cleared light...

winds and is affected by altitude, moisture content

geologist. 'Thank you, gentlemen. Now let us get out of this nasty wind. We will have time to become better acquainted later.' Her voice was soft, almost lilting, but the inflexion was sharp and clearly Southern African. Hector knew that she had been born in Cape Town and had only taken up US citizenship after she married Henry Bannock. Bert Simpson opened the passenger door of the Hummvee

The bleak autumn wind was still blowing, and the solemn, surging moan of it in the wood was dreary and awful to hear through the night silence. Issac felt strangely wakeful. He resolved, as he lay down in bed, to keep the candle alight until he began to grow sleepy; for there was something unendurably depressing in the bare idea of lying awake in the darkness, listening to the dismal, ceaseless moan of the wind in the wood. (The Dream Woman)

The clouds were wild in the western heaven, and the wind blew chill from the sea. Far as the shore was, the sound of the surf swept over the intervening moorland, and beat drearily in my ears when I entered the churchyard.

Outside, the north wind, coming and passing, swelling and dying, lifts the frozen sand drives it a-rattle against the lidless windows and we may dear sit stroking the cat stroking the cat and smiling sleepily, prrrr.

Lifeless in appearance, sluggish dazed spring approaches- They enter the new world naked, cold, uncertain of all save that they enter. All about them the cold, familiar wind- Now the grass, tomorrow the stiff curl of wildcarrot leaf One by one objects are defined- It quickens: clarity, outline of leaf But now the stark dignity of entrance-Still, the profound change has come upon them: rooted, they grip down and begin to awaken

ARRIVAL And yet one arrives somehow, finds himself loosening the hooks of her dress in a strange bedroom— feels the autumn dropping its silk and linen leaves about her ankles. The tawdry veined body emerges twisted upon itself like a winter wind...!

I asked him, What do you do? He smiled patiently, The typical American question. In Europe they would ask, What are you doing? Or, What are you doing now? What do I do? I listen, to the water falling. (No sound of it here but with the wind!) This is my entire occupation.

Hell, New Jersey, it said on the letter. Delivered without comment. So be it! Run from it, if you will. So be it. (Winds that enshroud us in their folds—or no wind). So be it. Pull at the doors, of a hot afternoon, doors that the wind holds, wrenches from our arms—and hands. So be it. The Library is sanctuary to our fears. So be it. So be it.—the wind that has tripped us, pressed upon us, prurient or upon the prurience of our fears—laughter fading. So be it.

Black wind, I have poured my heart out to you until I am sick of it- Now I run my hand over you feeling the play of your body - the quiver of it's strength-

The Wind Increases The harried earth is swept; the trees; the tulip's bright tips sidle and toss - Loose your love to flow - Blow! Good Christ, what is a poet - if any exists? A man whose words will bite their way home - being actual, having the form of motion at each twigtip upon the tortured body of thought; gripping the ground a way to the last leaftip.

And I will look down and see my murmuring bones and the deep water like wind, like a roof of wind, and after a long time they cannot distinguish even bones upon the lonely and inviolate sand.

A pair of jaybirds came up from nowhere, whirled up on the blast like gaudy scraps of cloth or paper and lodged in the mulberries, where they swung in raucous tilt and recover, screaming into the wind that ripped their harsh cries onward and away like scraps of paper or of cloth in turn.

Then she too seemed to blow out of his life on the long wind like a third scrap of paper.

and clear the mile away the wind might bring its sound from the tracks when the wind lay right, blowing off the day and finally letting the darkness settle, and damp, for day to return like a rumor of day and lurk in the sky unable to break

Outside the wind had picked up a little. Isaac sheltered his prize and walked quickly up the little alley that adjoined The Dying Child with Paddler Way and his workshop-home. He pushed open the green doors with his bum and backed into the building. Isaac's laboratory had been a factory and a warehouse years ago, and its huge, dusty floorspace swamped the little benches and retorts and blackboards that perched in its corners.

The wind blows through him, cleansing. Salt and distance, smell of the deep.