Quotes About Wind

Western wind, when will thou blow, The small rain down can rain? Christ, if my love were in my arms And I in my bed again!

A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea.

The wind had blown off, leaving a loud, bright night, with wings beating in the treas and a persistent organ sound as the full bellows of the earth blew the frogs full of life.

A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up towards the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea.

It was dawn now on Long Island and we went about opening the rest of the windows downstairs, filling the house with gray-turning, gold-turning light. The Shadow of a tree fell abruptly across the dew and ghostly birds began to sing among the blue leaves. There was a slow, pleasant movement in the air, scarcely a wind, promising a cool, lovely day.

Wilson's glazed eyes turned out to the ashheaps, where small gray clouds took on fantastic shape and scurried here and there in the faint dawn wind.

You could say that this was where an accidental wind blew him but I don't think so. I would rather think that in a long shot he saw a new way of measuring our jerky hopes and graceful rogueries and awkward sorrows, and that he came here from choice to be with us to the end. Like the plane coming down into the Glendale airport into the warm darkness.

Outside the wind was loud and there was a faint flow of thunder along the Sound. All the lights were going on in West Egg now; the electric trains, men-carrying, were plunging home through the rain from New York. It was the hour of a profound human change, and excitement was generating on the air

As vezes ouço passar o vento; e só de ouvir o vento passar, vale a pena ter nascido

XIII Lightly, lightly, very lightly A very light wind passes, And it goes away just as lightly, And I don't know what I'm thinking, Nor do I wish to know.

I'm so cold, so weary in my abandonment. Go and find my Mother, O Wind.

Quero dos deuses só que me não lembrem. Serei livre — sem dita nem desdita, Como o vento que é a vida Do ar que não é nada O ódio e o amor iguais nos buscam; ambos, Cada um com seu modo nos oprimem. A quem deuses concedem Nada, tem liberdade

Olá, guardador de rebanhos, Aí à beira da estrada, Que te diz o vento que passa?"   "Que é vento, e que passa, E que já passou antes, E que passará depois. E

THE WIND IN THE DARKNESS HOWLS The wind in the darkness howls, Its sound reaching ever farther. The substance of my thought Is that it cannot cease. It seems the soul has a darkness In which blows ever harder A madness that derives From wanting to understand. The wind in the darkness rages, Unable to free itself. I'm a prisoner to my thought As the wind is a prisoner to air.

We were so tenuous and slight that the wind's passing left us prostrate, and time's passage caressed us like a breeze grazing the top of a palm.

All is nothing, and in the entrance hall to the Invisible, whose open door reveals merely a closed door beyond, all things dance, servants of the wind that stirs them without hands – all things, big and small, which for us and in us formed the perceptible system of the universe.

You've never heard the wind blow. The wind only speaks of the wind. What you heard was a lie, And the lie is in you.

They have a fine breeze and are now we hope, well on their way.

Along with rising and falling water, winter is the province of wind. When the sea-breath and mountain-roar bend the hemlocks of these hills, the birds hang on as best they can.

The wind was as ripe as apples, so full of fall that you could almost bite every breath.

Warm summer sun, shine friendly here Warm western wind, blow kindly here; Green sod above, rest light, rest light, Good-night, Annette! Sweetheart, good-night!

The storm is over, the land hushes to rest: The tyrannous wind, its strength fordone, Is fallen back in the west.

Jesus told Nicodemus, 'The wind blows wherever it pleases. You hear its sound, but you cannot tell where it comes from or where it is going. So it is with everyone born of the Spirit.' It's a supernatural, spiritual experience.

The Chukchee, a people indigenous to Siberia, had their own special way of dealing with unruly winds. A Chukchee man would chant, "Western Wind, look here! Look down on my buttocks. We are going to give you some fat. Cease blowing!" The nineteenth-century European visitor who reported this ritual described it as follows: "The man pronouncing the incantation lets his breeches fall down, and bucks leeward, exposing his bare buttocks to the wind. At every word he claps his hands.