Quotes About Wind

The thread has snapped. No sound even to mark the breaking let alone the fall. That long anticipated disintegration, when the darkest angel of all, the horror beyond all horrors, sits at last upon my chest, permanently enfolding me in its great covering wings, black as ink, veined in Bees' purple. A creature without a voice. A voice without a name. As immortal as my life. Come here at long last to summon the wind.

A creature without a voice. A voice without a name. As immortal as my life. Come here at long last to summon the wind.

and this great blue world of ours seems a house of leaves moments before the wind

Outside a thunderstorm begins to crack and spit rain at the windows. Lightning builds shadows. A wind howls like the wounded, filling everyone with cold, bone weary dread.

El libro se abrió... Una ráfaga de viento amplificada por la quietud de la noche.

But strength without flexibility makes one hard. Come September, when those fierce winds blow in from the sea, those hardwoods crack, splinter and fall. But the pliant palms are resilient and they bend with the wind. This is the secret of a Southern woman. Strength, resilience and beauty. We are never hard.

The wind was cold and cut into her even though it was at her back, but she loved the wild sound and the salt smell of it and the deepened sense of solitude it brought.

It was in the latter days of September, and the equinoctial gales had set in with exceptional violence. All day the wind had screamed and the rain had beaten against the windows, so that even here in the heart of great, hand-made London we were forced to raise our minds for the instant from the routine of life and to recognise the presence of those great elemental forces which shriek at mankind through the bars of his civilisation, like untamed beasts in a cage.

There's an east wind coming, Watson." "I think not, Holmes. It is very warm." "Good old Watson! You are the one fixed point in a changing age. There's an east wind coming all the same, such a wind as never blew on England yet. It will be cold and bitter, Watson and a good many of us may wither before its blast. But it's God's own wind none the less, and a cleaner, better, stronger land will lie in the sunshine when the storm has cleared.

Outside the wind howled down Baker Street, while the rain beat fiercely against the windows. It was strange there, in the very depths of the town, with ten miles of man's handiwork on every side of us, to feel the iron grip of Nature, and to be conscious that to the huge elemental forces all London was no more than the molehills that dot the fields.

And suddenly everything around me seemed to grow quiet, as if he were the wind that blew and I were just a cloud carried upon it.

Adversity is like a strong wind. I don't mean just that it holds us back from places we might otherwise go. It also tears away from us all but the things that cannot be torn, so that afterward we see ourselves as we really are, and not merely as we might like to be.

Pandoru mukkuvan muthinu poyi, (Once a fisherman went to sea,) Padinjaran kattathu mungi poyi, (The west wind blew and swallowed his boat,)

Is 'Vane' Vane's real name? Minnie chuckled evilly. Spencer Archibald- and if you dare call him that to his face, you'll be braver than any other in the 'ton.' Only his mother can still do so with impunity. He's been known as Vane since before he went to Eton. Devil named him- said he always knew which way the wind was blowing and what was in the breeze.

I was suddenly very aware of the fact it was me standing up in that tunnel with the wind over my face. Not caring if I saw downtown. Not even thinking about it. Because I was standing in the tunnel. And I was really there. And that was enough to make me feel infinite.

The candle flickered in the wind of the hurricane... Then, the light of one hundred billion stars burned out.

Ma, soprattutto, piangevo perchè, all'improvviso, mi ero reso conto che ero proprio io quello in piedi, nel tunnel, con il vento che gli sferzava il viso. Non m'interessava vedere il centro della città. Non ci pensavo nemmeno. Perché ero in piedi, nel tunnel. Ed ero presente, davvero. E questo è bastato a farmi provare quella sensazione di infinito.

Pero sobre todo, lloraba porque de repente fui consciente del hecho de que era yo el que estaba de pie en ese túnel con el viento corriendo por mi cara. Sin preocuparme de ver el centro de la ciudad. Sin ni siquiera pensar en ello. Porque estaba de pie en el túnel. Y estaba realmente allí. Y aquello era suficiente para hacerme sentir infinito.

But mostly, I was crying because I was suddenly very aware of the fact that it was me standing up in that tunnel with the wind over my face. Not caring if I saw downtown. Not even thinking about it. Because I was standing in the tunnel. And I was really there. And that was enough to make me feel infinite.

The wind had a voice as it came over the waves, and it was sadder than the end.

Time is a keyhole, he thought as he looked up at the stars. Yes, I think so. We sometimes bend and peer through it. And the wind we feel on our cheeks when we do - the wind that blows through the keyhole- is the breath of all the living universe.

The wind makes you ache is some place that is deeper than your bones. It may be that it touches something old in the human soul, a chord of race memory that says Migrate or die - migrate or die.

The exhilaration was hard to explain. It was a lonely feeling — a somehow melancholy feeling. He was outside; he passed on the wings of the wind, and none of the people beyond the brightly lighted squares of their windows saw him. They were inside, inside where there was light and warmth. They didn't know he had passed them; only he knew. It was a secret thing.

But there was only that silence, as in the five or ten minutes before a vicious thundersquall strikes, when the purple heads stack up in the sky overhead and the light turns a queer purple-yellow and the wind dies completely.