Quotes
Quotes about Wind
Construed as turf, home just seems a provisional claim, a designation you make upon a place, not one it makes on you. A certain set of buildings, a glimpsed, smudged window-view across a schoolyard, a musty aroma sniffed behind a garage when you were a child, all of which come crowding in upon your latter-day sensesâthose are pungent things and vivid, even consoling. But to me they are also inert and nostalgic and unlikely to connect you to the real, to that essence art can sometimes achieve, which is permanence.
I plucked a honeysuckle where The hedge on high is quick with thorn, And climbing for the prize, was torn, And fouled my feet in quag-water; And by the thorns and by the wind The blossom that I took was thinn'd And yet I found it sweet and fair.
Come, for the House of Hope is built on sand: bring wine, for the fabric of life is as weak as the wind.
Looking out of a hospital window is different from looking out of any other. Somehow you do not see outside.
Blow, blow, thou winter wind, Thou art not so unkind As man's ingratitude: Thy tooth is not so keen, Because thou art not seen, Although thy breath be rude.
I find that the great thing in this world is not so much where we stand as in what direction we are moving: To reach the port of heaven, we must sail sometimes with the wind and sometimes against it--but we must sail, and not drift, nor lie at anchor.
People are like stained-glass windows. They sparkle and shine when the sun is out, but when the darkness sets in, their true beauty is revealed only if there light is from within.
Integrity is not a conditional word. It doesn't blow in the wind or change with the weather. It is your inner image of yourself, and if you look in there and see a man who won't cheat, then you know he never will.
There came to the beach a poor Exile of Erin, The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill; For his country he sigh'd, when at twilight repairing. To wander along by the wind-beaten hill. But the day star attracted his eyes' sad devotion, For it rose o'er his own native isle of the ocean, Where once in the fire of his youthful emotion He sang the bold anthem of Erin-go-bragh.
And at my silent window-sill The jessamine peeps in.
It strikes! one, two, Three, four, five, six. Enough, enough, dear watch, Thy pulse hath beat enough. Now sleep and rest; Would thou could'st make the time to do so too; I'll wind thee up no more.
Does the road wind up-hill all the way? Yes, to the very end. Will the day's journey take the whole long day? From morn to night, my friend.
They hear a voice in every wind, And snatch a fearful joy.
The linden, in the fervors of July, Hums with a louder concert. When the wind Sweeps the broad forest in its summer prime, As when some master-hand exulting sweeps The keys of some great organ, ye give forth The music of the woodland depths, a hymn Of gladness and of thanks.
June falls asleep upon her bier of flowers; In vain are dewdrops sprinkled o'er her, In vain would fond winds fan her back to life, Her hours are numbered on the floral dial.
Don't be afraid of opposition. Remember that a kite rises against - not with - the wind.
The lark now leaves his watery nest, And climbing, shakes his dewy wings. He takes your window for the East And to implore your light he sings.
Is not the winding up witnesses, And nicking, more than half the bus'ness? For witnesses, like watches, go Just as they're set, too fast or slow; And where in Conscience they're strait-lac'd, 'Tis ten to one that side is cast.
The wind which snuffs the candle fans the fire.
What a place to be in is an old library! It seems as though all the souls of all the writers that have bequeathed their labours to these Bodleians were reposing here as in some dormitory, or middle state. I do not want to handle, to profane the leaves, their winding-sheets. I could as soon dislodge a shade. I seem to inhale learning, walking amid their foliage; and the odor of their old moth-scented coverings is fragrant as the first bloom of those sciential apples which grew amid the happy orchard. - Charles Lamb (used pseudonym Elia),
We are the voices of the wandering wind, Which moan for rest and rest can never find; Lo! as the wind is so is mortal life, A moan, a sigh, a sob, a storm, a strife.
But let my due feet never fail To walk the studious cloisters pale, And love the high embowed roof, With antique pillars massy proof, And storied windows richly dight; Casting a dim religious light.
The linden, in the fervors of July, Hums with a louder concert. When the wind Sweeps the broad forest in its summer prime, As when some master-hand exulting sweeps The keys of some great organ, ye give forth The music of the woodland depths, a hymn Of gladness and of thanks.
This life's dim windows of the soul. Distorts the heavens from pole to pole. And leads you to believe a lie when you see with, not through, the eye.
Poetry is the impish attempt to paint the color of the wind.
