Quotes About Wind

El viento muere en mi herida. La noche mendiga mi sangre.

Wiatr mi?o?ci wieje, k?dy chce; s?yszysz jego szum, nie wiesz jednak, sk?d idzie i dok?d.

And suddenly…there was a wind. No, not a wind. A blur of motion… Bending the steel of their weapons and changing the very course of the might river below. Even before the bystanders freed themselves from the cable car, they know. We all did. We knew… and remembered.

Il vento portò da lontano l'accenno di un canto primaverile, chissà dove, lucido e profondo si aprì un pezzetto di cielo. In questo azzurro smisurato, fra barlumi della vicina primavera piangevano burrasche invernali, si libravano sogni stellati. Timide, cupe e profonde piangevano le mie corde. Il vento portò da lontano le sue squillanti canzoni.

The storm is a glazier. Then fog passes through, touches the cold trees to add to the ice already there. Here the wind spins glass from the water it has stolen off the sea and the lakes, off the hair on my head and the breath out of my mouth, the storm takes the water from us all everywhere, to make of a mountain range a stained-glass depiction of a saint no one knows.

The rains!' everyone sang. The wind struck us with a force that made our line bend and waver.

Take time as it comes, the wind as it blows, woman as she is.

It was one of those somber evenings when the sighing of the wind resembles the moans of a dying man; a storm was brewing, and between the splashes of rain on the windows there was the silence of death. All nature suffers in such moments; the trees writhe in pain and twist their heads; the birds of the fields cower under the bushes; the streets of cities are deserted.

I'm learning kite surfing. It's a little surfboard you have on your feet with straps, and you have a big kite like a power glider in the air that pulls you. You don't need waves to move, and it makes a big spray of water as you go.

De regen op de ruit als de wind schuin staat de lampen die zwaaien boven de tramrails simpele dingen wil ik zien en horen zonder de poespas van de betekenislaag.

But he saw Naomi as the wind traveling over the field, always searching, never stopping, and never knowing that true piece is when you curl around one little piece of something. One little fern. One little frond. One person to love.

But he saw Naomi as the wind traveling over the field, always searching, never stopping, and never knowing that true peace is when you curl around one little piece of something. One little fern. One little frond. One person to love.

a great gust of wind swept off the Hudson and snatched my hat from my head. I gave a scream of despair

There were ghosts in the wind, whispers from the snow or the invisible meltwater flowing beneath.

The drone dies in the mating process: the wind pressure developed during his attempt to catch and mount the queen actually causes him to explode with an audible pop as he ejaculates inside her. He then falls off the queen, usually leaving a portion of his phallus inside her.

There is no prettier sight in the world than a full-rigged, clipper-built brig, sailing sharp on the wind.

She's somewhere in the sunlight strong, / Her tears are in the falling rain, / She calls me in the wind's soft song, / And with the flowers she comes again.

That wind of terrible and jealous beauty blowing over me—that dark fire, that music …

An old man, I want only peace. The things of this world mean nothing. I know no good way to live and I can't stop getting lost in my thoughts, my ancient forests. The wind that waves the pines loosens my belt. The mountain moon lights me as I play my lute. You ask: how does a man rise or fall in this life? The fisherman's song flows deep under the river.

When the wind stops, the stillness suspends them between two eternities, entirely in the caress of here and now.

Patricia blooms like something southern-facing. The air of the sixties crackles as she crosses campus, a change in the weather, the smell of days lengthening, the scent of possibility breaking the cast of outdated thought, a clear wind rolling down from the hills.

But totally unexpected at the high altitude at which the bombers flew was a 140-mile-per-hour wind. They were blown with it over the target and their ground speed was therefore nearly 450 mph, impossible for the bombardiers.

His gun cracked again and he missed me, though I felt the hot wind hiss past my cheek.

Some people say with the wolf kept out, our country lost its wildness. There was room for plant eaters but the woods are not the same as they were. The shadows of the forest are different, the wind is different.