Quotes About Wind

But it is a mild, mild wind, and a mild looking sky; and the airs smells now, as if it blew from a far-away meadow; they have been making hay somewhere under the slopes of the Andes, Starbuck, and the mowers are sleeping among the new-mown hay. Sleeping?

Die Wahrheit, dass alles tiefe, ernsthafte Denken nur das unerschrockene Streben der Menschenseele ist, sich die hohe Freiheit ihrer Meere zu bewahren; dieweil die wildesten Winde zwischen Himmel und Erde sich verschworen haben, uns an der elenden Knechtschaft der Küste scheitern zu lassen.

Nes visa tai ?vyko plakant mano širdžiai; buvo v?jas, saul? ir debesys, visi jie sruvo per mano šird? ir per mano rankas.

See in the mind's eye wind blowing chaff on ancient threshing floors when men with fans toss up the trodden sheaves, and yellow-haired Demeter, puff by puff, divides the chaff and grain: how all day long in bleaching sun strawpiles grow white: so white grew those Akhaian figures in the dustcloud churned to the brazen sky by horses' hooves as chariots intermingled, as the drivers turned and turned—carrying their hands high and forward gallantly despite fatigue.

As the sail bellied out with the wind, the ship flew through the deep blue water, and the foam hissed against her bows as she sped onward.

As on the sacred threshing floor wind blows the chaff, while men stand winnowing the crop, when Demeter, with her golden hair, separates the grain from the chaff in the rushing breeze, and piles of chaff grow whiter, so then Achaean troops grew white, covered with dust stirred up by horses hooves.

10  As on the peaks of a mountain the south wind scatters the thick mist, no friend to the shepherd, but better than night for the robber, and a man can see before him only so far as a stone cast, so beneath their feet the dust drove up in a stormcloud of men marching, who made their way through the plain in great speed.

As is the generation of leaves, so is that of humanity. The wind scatters the leaves on the ground, but the live timber burgeons with leaves again in the season of spring returning. So one generation of men will grow while another 150  dies. Yet if you wish to learn all this and be certain of my genealogy: there are plenty of men who know it.

Fragment ui Duizend schitterende zonnen. Vertel je geheim aan de wind, maar verwijt hem dan niet dat hij het aan de bomen doorvertelt. Khalil Gibran

Coltaine rattles slow across the burning land. The wind howls through the bones of his hate-ridden command. Coltaine leads a chain of dogs ever snapping at his hand. Coltaine`s fist bleeds the journey home along rivers of red-soaked sand. His train howls through his bones in spiteful reprimand. Coltaine leads a chain of dogs ever snapping at his hand.

Memories belong in the soil, in stone, in wind. They are the land's unseen meaning, such that touches the souls of all who would look – truly look – upon it.

We are all interludes in history, a drawn breath to make pause in the rush, and when we are gone, those breaths join the chorus of the wind.

The hillside before them blurred, as if a curtain of wind-blown sand rose before it. A churning wind roiled through this strange mist.

A wayward wind drew a wintry breath across the scene with a sound like a gasp, shivering the grasses.

Eddies of dry wind whipped tatters of cloth and reed paper about in dancing circles.

The tunnels shrieked with the wind, each one with its own febrile pitch, creating a fierce chorus.

Memories belong in the soil, in stone, in wind. They are the land's unseen meaning, such that touches the souls of all who would look – truly look – upon it. Touches, in faintest whisper, old, almost shapeless echoes – to which a mortal life adds its own.

When the day knew only darkness, the wind a mute beggar stirring ashes and stars in the discarded pools beneath the old retaining wall, down where the white rivers of sand slip grain by grain into the unseen, and every foundation is but a moment from a horizon's stagger, I found myself among friends and so was made at ease with my modest list of farewells Soldier Dying Fisher kel Tath

the hot west wind that blew like sand whispering across stone.

Wind slapped them against the cliff face, then yanked them outward in a biting swirl of airborne sand.

Starlight played on its swirling surface two hundred paces away. Moths fluttered like flecks of snow fleeing the warm wind. Neither man spoke for a long while.

A sudden wind thrashed the treetops in the garden, sweeping down from the east.

Leaves skirled past, clattering like tiny bones.

As I stand by the sea, I can learn from the sea. No one can demand of the sea that it bears all our boats, or of the wind that it continually fills our sails. Likewise no one has the right to demand of me that my life should be captive to performing only certain tasks. Not duty above all, but life!