Quotes About Wind

Once the wind of God's Spirit starts blowing, you're no longer praying rote, innocuous prayers. Instead, you're praying deliberate prayers. Prayers that are as personalized and devastating as the enemy's attacks against you. Strategic prayers. Powerful prayers. Prayers

He struck his own fire, listened to the night wind roar through the trees. Sometimes, when he could see it, he stared at the Conriyan encampment and counted fires like an idiot child. "Always number your foemen," his father had once told him, "by the glitter of their fires." Sometimes he gazed at the stars and wondered if they too were his enemies.

At altitudes of 6000 to 16,000 feet, and with wind velocities reaching 45 miles an hour, many living insects have been taken.

Si mi voz muriera en tierra, llevadla al nivel del mar y dejadla en la ribera. Llevadla al nivel del mar y nombradla capitana de un blanco bajel de guerra. ¡Oh my v0z condecorada con la insignia marinera: sobre el corazón un ancla y sobre el ancla una estrella y sobre la estrella el viento y sobre el viento la vela!

Si mi voz muriera en tierra llevadla al nivel del mar y dejadla en la ribera. Llevadla al nivel del mar y nombradla capitana de un blanco bajel de guerra. Oh mi voz condecorada con la insignia marinera: sobre el corazón un ancla y sobre el ancla una estrella y sobre la estrella el viento y sobre el viento una vela!

Sal, hortelana, del mar, flotando, sobre tu huerto, desnuda, para llorar por el marinero muerto! Llueve sobre el agua, llueve nieve negra de alga fría. Entre glaciares de nieve, abierta, la tumba mía. ¡Funerales de las olas! ¡El viento, en los arenales! Entre apagadas farolas se hunden mis funerales.

The mild wind made the trees sway gently, in a lullaby rhythm, and the resultant susurration was like the soft sighs and dreamy murmurs of a thousand peacefully slumbering children.

Every palace and every work of art is only dust as yet unrealized, and time is the patient wind that will whither it all away.

Sometimes, out in the night, on the dark beach, when the sky is clear and the vault of stars makes me feel simultaneously mortal and invincible, when the wind is still and even the sea is hushed as it breaks upon the shore

Some of that wind had begun to sweep the streets of Black River, just enough of it to turn the leaves on the trees—a sign, according to folklore, of oncoming rain.

I'd come to appreciate the sounds of silence. I'd grown accustomed to the stillness of Ponder, where one could hear the snow being blown off the tree limbs by the wind, the distant cry of a caribou, and the crackle of the Northern Lights.

Montooth said. "What you hearing is just wind." "Wind of change maybe," Pearl Eyes said softly. "I'm old enough to know it when I feel it in my hair." Montooth smiled. "You ain't got much hair left." "That's 'cause the wind took it

It's only that ye looked so beautiful, wi' the fire on your face, and your hair waving in the wind. I wanted to remember it.

Don't move, Sassenach, Jamie's voice came softly, next to me. Just for a moment, mo duinne--be still. I obligingly froze, until he touched me on the shoulder. That's all right, Sassenach, he said, with a smile in his voice. It's only that ye looked so beautiful, wi' the fire on your face, and your hair waving in the wind. I wanted to remember it.

The vivid memory of the woods had blossomed into a visceral longing for the Ridge, so immediate that I felt the ghost of my vanished house rise around me, a cold mountain wind thrumming past its walls, and thought that, if I reached down, I could feel Adso's soft gray fur under my fingers. I swallowed, hard.

Movement at the door of the cabin, and a small figure that I recognized as Amy Higgins appeared. The tall woman pulled off her hat and waved it, her long red hair streaming out like a banner in the wind. "Hello, the house!" she called, laughing. Then I was flying down the hill, with Jamie just before me, arms flung wide, the two of us flying together on that same wind.

It was very quiet here on the mountainside, but, quiet in the of hills and forests. A quiet that wasn't silent at all, but composed of constant tiny sounds. It was small buzzing in the gorse bush nearby, of bees working the yellow flowers -dusty with pollen, far below was the rushing of the burn, a low note echoing the wind above stirring leaves and rattling twigs sighing past the jutting boulders.

But he found the wall of prayer a barricade between himself and the wicked sly thoughts and, closing his eyes briefly, felt his father walk beside him and Brian Fraser's last kiss soft as the wind on his cheek. —

ashes of the dead slaves fleeing on the wind, back toward Africa.

He would feel it begin to slip away when he left—that thin veneer of humanity—more of it gone with each step away from the farmhouse. Sometimes he would keep the illusion of warmth and family all the way to the cave where he hid; other times it would disappear almost at once, torn away by a chill wind, rank and acrid with the scent of burning.

Jamie's own face was lined with shadow, the firelight showing the mark of time and struggle on his flesh as wind and rain mark stone.

What are we going to do?" I said softly, addressing the question to the overwhelming depths of the vast dark sky overhead. I heard no sound but the rush of wind in the pine trees; no answer, save the form of my own question—the faint echo of "we" that rang in my ears. That much was true at least; whatever happened, none of us need face things alone. And I supposed that was after all as much answer as I needed, for now.

It flattened and began to drift out over the sea, the ashes of the dead slaves fleeing on the wind, back toward Africa.

then came an evil wind, that blew the seeds of misfortune into my garden.