Quotes About Wind

Sweet Goddess, born of a blinding light and a changing wind, don't be modest - you know who you are and where you've been.

By combining certain elements of technique which ignite each other I could shit the levels of perception, time-frame structures and systems of rythm which would give my songs a brighter countenance, call them up from the grave [...] It was like parts of my psyche were being communicated to by angels. There was a big fire in the fireplace and the wind was making it roar.

The answer my friend, is blowing in the wind. The answer is blowing in the wind

I kissed goodbye The howling beast On the borderline That separated you from me. - Idiot Wind

The wind swept the snow aside, ever faster and thicker, as if it were trying to catch up with something, and Yurii Andreievich stared ahead of him out of the window, as if he were not looking at the snow but were still reading Tonia's letter and as if what flickered past him were not small dry snow crystals but the spaces between the small black letters, white, white, endless, endless.

I would pretend (metaphorically) to have seen nature and universe themselves not as a picture made or fastened on an immovable wall, but as a sort of painted canvas roof or curtain in the air, incessantly pulled and blown and flapped by a something of an immaterial unknown and unknowable wind.

He was coming in way too fast. He'd had no choice. The wind had changed, and coming in quickly was the only way to keep up with the speed of the enormous vessel.

Moving like a cold wind through the capitals of Europe, Harvath was Death.

Though we were in shelter, we could hear the rising wind, for it moaned and whistled through the rocks, and the branches of the trees crashed together as we swept along. It grew colder and colder still, and fine, powdery snow began to fall, so that soon we and all around us were covered with a white blanket

a wind howling began, which seemed to form all over the country, as far as the imagination could grasp it through the gloom of the night.

The brown fields were partly flooded; they were strung with chains of chill, grey pools. The pattern of the pools had meaning. The pools had been written on to the fields by the rain. The pools were a magic worked by the rain, just as the tumbling of the black birds against the grey was a spell that the sky was working and the motion of grey-brown grasses was a spell that the wind made. Everything had meaning.

Then he heard the hum. Vibrating in consonance with one of the tones of the ocean's churning, it slid in and out of perceptibility in the way that the landscape disappeared in the mist. But by stilling his breath and, to some degree, his jumping pulse, Jonathan was able to pick it out, the low continuo in the cantata of sea and wind.

Wind warns November's done with. The blown leaves make bat-shapes, Web-winged and furious.

Only the mouth-hole piped out, Importunate cricket In a quarry of silences. The people of the city heard it. They hunted the stones, taciturn and separate, The mouth-hole crying their locations. Drunk as a fetus I suck at the paps of darkness. The food tubes embrace me. Sponges kiss my lichens away. The jewelmaster drives his chisel to pry Open one stone eye. This is the after-hell: I see the light. A wind unstoppers the chamber

And the wind shall say: 'Here were decent Godless people: Their only monument the asphalt road And a thousand lost golf balls.

Eyes I dare not meet in dreams In death's dream kingdom These do not appear: There, the eyes are Sunlight on a broken column There, is a tree swinging And voices are In the wind's singing More distant and more solemn Than a fading star.

And voices are In the wind's singing More distant and more solemn Than a fading star.

Blown hair is sweet, brown hair over the mouth blown, Lilac and brown hair;

Dawn points, and another day Prepares for heat and silence. Out at sea the dawn wind Wrinkles and slides. I am here Or there, or elsewhere. In my beginning.

Let me be no nearer In death's dream kingdom Let me also wear Such deliberate disguises Rat's coat, crowskin, crossed staves In a field Behaving as the wind behaves No nearer — Not that final meeting In the twilight kingdom

Old men ought to be explorers Here and there does not matter We must be still and still moving Into another intensity For a further union, a deeper communion Through the dark cold and the empty desolation, The wave cry, the wind cry, the vast waters Of the petrel and the porpoise.

COME AWAY, dreamer, come away. Soon you will witness things that only sleepers and sorcerers can see. Climb onto the wind and let it bear you—yes, it is a swift and frightening steed, but there are leagues and leagues to journey and the night is short.

Scrying the wind is very difficult, Tris," Niko said gently. "It's like scrying the future. You're assailed with thousands of images — fragments, really. It drives many who try it insane." "You learned to scry the future," Tris pointed out. "And a number of people have informed me they think I am mad," Niko replied, his voice very dry.

She hurried to the front door, opened it, and stepped onto the porch. Dark cumulus clouds hovered low over the town, and a warm wind whipped through the trees, carrying stray leaves and dust through the street.