Quotes About Wind

Traduire le vent invisible par l'eau qu'il sculpte en passant.

The evening darkens over After a day so bright, The windcapt waves discover That wild will be the night.

Absence diminishes minor passions and inflames great ones, as the wind douses a candle and fans a fire. —François de La Rochefoucauld

Absence diminishes minor passions and inflames great ones, as the wind douses a candle and fans a fire. La Rochefoucauld, 1613-1680

The wind blew southwards, through knotted forests, over shimmering plains and toward lands unexplored. This wind, it was not the ending. There are no endings, and never will be endings, to the turning of the Wheel of Time. But it was an ending.

As he did so, a wind rose up around him, around the man who had been called lord, Dragon Reborn, king, killer, lover and friend.

The roar behind him was louder than anything he had ever heard in his life; a monstrous fist punched him in the back, knocking all the wind out of him even before he landed, sprawled on his belly on the wall top, barely holding on to his staff as it swung over the edge.

My love is gone, carried away, by the wind that shakes the willow, and all the land is beaten hard, by the wind that shakes the willow. But I will hold her close to me in heart and dearest memory, and with her strength to steel my soul, her love to warm my heart-strings, I will stand where we once sang, though cold wind shakes the willow.

La Rueda del Tiempo gira y las eras pasan y dejan tras de sí recuerdos que se convierten en leyenda. La leyenda se difumina, deviene en mito, e incluso el mito se ha olvidado mucho antes de que la era que lo vio nacer retorne de nuevo. En una era llamada la tercera por algunos, una era que ja de venir, una era transcurrida hace mucho, comenzó a soplar un viento...

All things change. Until we wake, the dream drifts on the wind.

He came like the wind, like the wind touched everything, and like the wind was gone.

The Wheel of Time turns, and Ages come and pass, leaving memories that become legend. Legend fades to myth, and even myth is long forgotten when the Age that gave it birth comes again. In one Age, called the Third Age by some, an Age yet to come, an Age long past, a wind rose in the Mountains of Mist. The wind was not the beginning. There are neither beginnings nor endings to the turning of the Wheel of Time. But it was a beginning. Eastward

Now tell me, Loial. What do you know of Be'lal. And briefly, for once. I want your long memory, not your long wind.

wind stiffened as dusk closed in. Mat began to ask querulously

she listened to Thom play his harp, singing love songs like "The First Rose of Summer" and "The Wind That Shakes the Willow," and funny songs like "Only One Boot" and "The Old Gray Goose." His

She seems so depressed sometimes by the monotony and boredom of her city life, I thought maybe in this endless grass and wind she would see a thing that sometimes comes when monotony and boredom are accepted. It's here, but I have no names for it.

It's happening, just from the warming of the sun, the road and green praire farmland and buffeting wind coming together. And soon it is nothing but beautiful warmth and wind and speed and sun down the empty road. The last chills of the morning are thawed by the warm air. Wind and more sun and more smooth road.

I hope later she will see and feel a thing about these prairies I have given up talking to others about; a thing that exists here because everything else does not and can be noticed because other things are absent. She seems so depressed sometimes by the monotony and boredom of her city life, I thought maybe in this endless grass and wind she would see a thing that sometimes comes when monotony and boredom are accepted. It's here, but I have no names for it.

The wind would come down a thousand miles and pound on the house and the sash would rattle and inside him something would be big and coiling slow and clotting till he would hold his breath and the blood would beat in his head with a hollow sound as though his head were a cave as big as the dark outside. He wouldn't have any name for what was big inside him. Maybe there isn't any name.

I hope later she will see and feel a thing about these parries I have given up talking to others about; a thing that exists here because everything else does not and can be noticed because other things are absent. She seems so depressed sometimes by the monotony and boredom of her city life, I thought maybe this endless grass and wind she would see a thing that sometimes comes when monotony and boredom are accepted.

She had always envied the wind. So free. Blowing where it listed. Through the hills. Over the lakes. What a tang, what a zip it had! What a magic of adventure!

Silence and twilight fell over the garden. Far away the sea was lapping gently and monotonously on the bar. The wind of evening in the poplars sounded like some sad, weird old rune-some broken dream of old memories. A slender, shapely young aspen rose up before them against the fine maize and emerald and paling rose of the western sky, which brought out every leaf and twig in dark, tremulous, elfin loveliness.

The dark hills, with the darker spruces marching over them, looked grim on early falling nights, but Ingleside bloomed with firelight and laughter, though the winds come in from the Atlantic singing of mournful things. Why isn't the wind happy, Mummy? asked Walter one night. Because it is remembering all the sorrow of the world since it began, answered Anne.

Anne, commenting on city life] I think I would probably come to the conclusion that I'd like it for a while... but in the end, I'd still prefer the sound of the wind in the firs across the brook more than the tinkling of crystal.