Quotes About Wind

I am but mad north-north-west. When the wind is southerly, I know a hawk from a handsaw.

You are not worth the dust which the rude wind blows in your face

Foul words is but foul wind, and foul wind is but foul breath, and foul breath is noisome; therefore I will depart unkissed.

Thou shalt be free As mountain winds: but then exactly do All points of my command.

Ring the alarum-bell! Blow, wind! come, wrack! At least we'll die with harness on our back.

That tears shall drown the wind. I have no spur To prick the sides of my intent, but only Vaulting ambition, which o'erleaps itself And falls on th' other.

Rarely is it advisable to meet prejudices and passions head on. Instead, it is best to appear to conform to them in order to gain time to combat them. One must know how to sail with a contrary wind and to tack until one meets a wind in the right direction. —Fortune de Felice, 1778

In a mile-eating trot, I moved along. I had the wind of a deer, the muscles of a country boy, a heart full of dog love, and a strong determination.

Only what is human can truly be foreign. The rest is mixed vegetation, subversive moles, and wind.

Everything was screaming: the sea, the wind, my heart.

Less welcome to the people of Paneron is the STIFLER, a humid wind that brings the allergenic pollen of carp-weed bushes from nearby unpopulated islands.

The great mass of breath is the wind, yet there are times when the wind does not move. When it does move, a myriad of orifices and appendages are aroused to make sounds. Have you never listened to the sound of the wind in the cavities, mountains and among the branches of trees? The wind blows in a thousand different ways, but each sound is produced in its own way. What is it that excites all this, and makes each way be itself, and all these things be self-produced?

Eliza's voice snapped like a freshly washed sheet hung to dry in a brisk wind.

I will learn fifteen types of wind and know the weight of tomorrow's rain by the rustle in the sycamores.

These are the stories that the Dogs tell when the fires burn high and the wind is from the north. Then each family circle gathers at the hearthstone and the pups sit silently and listen and when the story's done they ask many questions: "What is Man?" they'll ask. Or perhaps: "What is a city?" Or: "What is a war?

If Poe haunted her grave at night as tradition asserts, the nature of his experiences in a dark cemetery with the sound of the night wind through the funereal gratings and tall grave grasses must have been searing to the soul of one who was scarcely more than a boy.

Look up and see the wind, For we be ready to sail. Noah's Flood, a miracle play.

Storm H. D., 1886 - 1961 You crash over the trees, you crack the live branch— the branch is white, the green crushed, each leaf is rent like split wood. You burden the trees with black drops, you swirl and crash— you have broken off a weighted leaf in the wind, it is hurled out, whirls up and sinks, a green stone.

I am the fiery life of the essence of God; I am the flame above the beauty in the fields; I shine in the waters; I burn in the sun, the moon, and the stars. And with the airy wind, I quicken all things vitally by an unseen, all-sustaining life.

Butter-blond hair threaded with gold blew around his face.

As is the generation of leaves, so is that of humanity. The wind scatters the leaves on the ground, but the live timber Burgeons with leaves again in the season of spring returning. So one generation of men will grow while another dies.

A generation of men is like a generation of leaves; the wind scatters some leaves upon the ground, while others the burgeoning wood brings forth - and the season of spring comes on. So of men one generation springs forth and another ceases.

Before I had a name I existed in the world as breath as the wind as a star. For a moment if I could be the breath & the wind & the nameless star I'd meet the sky that holds them as it holds me, & I'd say joyfully, namaste.

A pity it is evening, yet I do love the water of this spring seeing how clear it is, how clean; rays of sunset gleam on it, lighting up its ripples, making it one with those who travel the roads; I turn and face the moon; sing it a song, then listen to the sound of the wind amongst the pines.