Quotes About Wind

This is surely the most significant of the elements that Tolkien brought to fantasy.... his arranged marriage between the Elder Edda and "The Wind in the Willows"--big Icelandic romance and small-scale, cozy English children's book. The story told by "The Lord of the Rings" is essentially what would happen if Mole and Ratty got drafted into the Nibelungenlied.

Look at them on days like that, when the wind is blowing through the boundaries of fresh and stiff, and you will see them for what they are: wind-runners, wind-dancers, the wind-spirits, alive with an evolved ability to live with the wind, in it and on it, drawing out its energy to make their own feathered, mobile, ocean-ranging magnificence.

Like ashes from a volcanic eruption, the legacy of the St. Domingue slave revolt was carried throughout the Atlantic world by what the poet William Wordsworth called "the common wind.

We drank our whiskeys. It was the good stuff and it tasted of salt, sea, rain, wind and the Old Testament.

When he reached the edge of the inner circle, Ewan drew his sword. A gust of wind howled through the bailey, sending a shiver snaking down his spine. It all seemed so unreal, yet here he stood ready to defend his wife—or die trying.

Barang siapa menyebar angin dia akan berpanen badai.

Quicksands Demons and Wonders Winds and Tides Yet in the distance the sea has withdrawn Demons and Wonders Winds and Tides And you Like a seaweed the wind gently caresses In the sands of your bed you're moving dreaming Demons and Wonders Winds and Tides Yet in the distance the sea has withdrawn But in your half-opened eyes Two small waves staid Demons and Wonders Winds and Tides Two small waves to drown myself.

Only a fool unleashes the storm winds of fear, Ralf. Since no man has the power to direct how they may blow, they could just as easily destroy those who hope most to benefit from them, although the innocent always suffer long before that happens.

The wind languished. The floral curtain ceased flapping. The moonlight streamed through, lighting up her face. It was a young, animated face. At that moment, it touched a string, a peg, deep inside him.

Light, oh where is the light! Kindle it with the burning fire of desire! It thunders and the wind rushes screaming through the void. The night is black as a black stone. Let not the hours pass by in the dark. Kindle the lamp of love with thy life.

When it blows here, even the seagulls walk.

Je te vois, rose, livre entrebâillé, qui contient tant de pages de bonheur détaillé qu'on ne lira jamais. Livre-mage, qui s'ouvre au vent et qui peut être lu les yeux fermés ..., dont les papillons sortent confus d'avoir eu les mêmes idées.

My eyes already touch the sunny hill. going far beyond the road I have begun, So we are grasped by what we cannot grasp; it has an inner light, even from a distance and changes us, even if we do not reach it, into something else, which, hardly sensing it, we already are; a gesture waves us on answering our own wave but what we feel is the wind in our faces. - A Walk

Oh and night: there is night, when a wind full of infinite space gnaws at our faces. Whom would it not remain for - that longed-after, mildly disillusioning presence, which the solitary heart so painfully meets. Is it any less difficult for lovers? But they keep on using each other to hide their own fate.

SONG OF THE SEA Timeless sea breezes, sea-wind of the night: you come for no one; if someone should wake, he must be prepared how to survive you. Timeless sea breezes, that for aeons have blown ancient rocks, you are purest space coming from afar…

Then the wind comes so swift and dashing that it takes the autumn leaves with it, and they rise into the juggling air, while the trees bleat and blubber. Then drops fall, big as the thumb … the earth itself seems to heave up and cheep in the monsoon rains. It churns and splashes, beats against the treetops, reckless and wilful, and suddenly floating forwards, it bucks back and spits forward and pours down upon the green, weak coffee leaves, thumping them down to the earth.

From the earth, as a shore, I look out into that silent sea. I seem to partake its rapid transformations; the active enchantment reaches my dust, and I dilate and conspire with the morning wind.

The wind outside nested in each tree, prowled the sidewalks in invisible treads like unseen cats. Tom Skelton shivered. Anyone could see that the wind was a special wind this night, and the darkness took on a special feel because it was All Hallows' Eve. Everything seemed cut from soft black velvet or gold or orange velvet. Smoke panted up out of a thousand chimneys like the plumes of funeral parades. From kitchen windows drifted two pumpkin smells: gourds being cut, pies being baked.

The autumn leaves blew over the moonlit pavement in such a way as to make the girl who was moving there seem fixed to a sliding walk, letting the motion of the wind and the leaves carry her forward. [...] The trees overhead made a great sound of letting down their dry rain.

He knew what the wind was doing to them, where it was taking them, to all the secret places that were never so secret again in life.

I am a child of the poisonous wind that copulated with the East River on an oil-slick, garbage infested midnight. I turn about on my own parentage. I inoculate against those very biles that brought me to light. I am a serum born of venoms. I am the antibody of all Time. I am the Cure. You do of the City, do you not? Manhattan is your punisher, let me be you shield.

And he listened to me. That was the thing he did, as if he was trying to fill himself up with all the sound he could hear. He listened to the wind and the falling ocean and my voice, always with rapt attention, a concentration that almost excluded physical bodies themselves and kept only the sounds.

Feel," said Driscoll, his hands and arms out loosely. "Remember how you used to run when you were a kid, and how the wind felt. Like feathers on your arms. You ran and thought any minute you'd fly, but you never quite did.

Cerrando los ojos, volviendo la cabeza, escuchando. Oh que viento solitario. México es un país raro. Todo selvas y desiertos y extensiones solitarias y aquí y allí un pueblo pequeño como éste, con unaa pocas luces encendidas que puedes apagar con un castañeo de los dedos.