Quotes About Wild

It may well be that what gives to the wind along that Wessex coast its indescribable mixture of vague sorrow and wild obscure joy comes from its passing, on its unpredictable path, the floating hair of so many love-lorn maidens and the wild-tossed beards of so many desolate old men.

He who delights in solitude is either a wild beast or a god.

Death frees the beast.

So what is wild? What is wilderness? What are dreams but an internal wilderness and what is desire but a wildness of the soul?

For me, it's about the desire to win. My audience becomes a crowd of wild animals and I have to be the lion-tamer or be eaten.

One might say that "Torch Song" is, in part, about the urgency of the effort to pin things down and what wild dart throwing that desire leads to.

But the Promise showed their wildest dreams had simply not been wild enough.

If you write your own lyrics now, and those are the main focus in the EP... people tend to approach it as Americana, which is wild. That's what leads people to it. But it's just whatever people want; as long as they like the music.

I always drive like a madman.

When I was maybe like, under 10 years old, I was kind of like a maniac.

A garden should be natural-seeming, with wild sections, including a large area of bluebells.

Barbarian Horde This will be lot and lots of wild-screaming people advancing under a cloud of dust in order to devestate more civilized parts. They are a bit like locusts, except that they kill people direcly.

And the nights, bigger than imagining: black and gusty and enormous, disordered and wild with stars.

That was a cozy night, a happy night; lamps lit, sparkle of glasses, rain falling heavy on the roof. Outside, the treetops tumbled and tossed, with a foamy whoosh like club soda bubbling up in the glass. The windows were open and a damp cool breeze swirled through the curtains, bewitchingly wild and sweet.

Light climbed and burst through the wild desert clouds- never-ending sky, acid blue, like a computer game or a test pilot's hallucination.

I had a very famous trainer tell me once, 'You can usually train a wild animal but never tame a wild animal, ever.' They are always going to be wild, no matter what anybody says.

The Wild still lingered in him and the wolf in him merely slept.

I'm really a-howling!

Then there was Clark Ashton Smith, who wrote for Weird Tales and who had a wild imagination. He wasn't a very talented writer, but his imagination was wonderful.

When he walked in her dreams moths rose from the earth where his paws touched the ground, as if born from his footfall. They followed him, a cloud of moths of all colours. And the music of moth wings followed him. And the dancing lights of the northern sky hung in his breath. In his eyes, a world of wild. On his coat, the colours of snow. In his voice, the wisdom of untamed things.

He gave her gifts: a crown of ice, woven with berries, feathers, and the light of love in his wild fox eyes.

Or would you feel how my love is wrapped around by the richest, the wildest song? And, if I said my love for you is like the time when the nightingale is absent from our twilight world, would you hear it as silence? Nothing? No love? Or as anticipation of that rich current of music, which fills heart, soul, body, mind.

Rest now, in the peace of the wild things. May the swan be your pillow, may the gold owl bring you visions. May the red fox gift you cunning, and the wolf bring you courage. And may the white horse lend her strength to all your days.

And, if I said my love for you is like the hare's breath, would you feel it to be transient? So slight a thing? Or would you see it as life-giving? Wild? A thing that fills the blood, and sets the hare running?