Quotes
Quotes about Wind
O, the mulberry-tree is of trees the queen! Bare long after the rest are green; But as the time steals onwards, while none perceives Slowly she clothes herself with leaves-- Hides her fruit under them, hard to find. . . . . But by and by, when the flowers grow few And the fruits are dwindling and small to view-- Out she comes in her matron grace With the purple myriads of her race; Full of plenty from root to crown, Showering plenty her feet adown. While far over head hang gorgeously Large luscious berries of sanguine dye, For the best grows highest, always highest, Upon the mulberry-tree.
The rustle of the leaves in summer's hush When wandering breezes touch them, and the sigh That filters through the forest, or the gush That swells and sinks amid the branches high,-- 'Tis all the music of the wind, and we Let fancy float on the aeolian breath.
There is a muscular energy in sunlight corresponding to the spiritual energy of wind.
Will urban sprawl spread so far that most people lose all touch with nature? Will the day come when the only bird a typical American child ever sees is a canary in a pet shop window? When the only wild animal he knows is a rat - glimpsed on a night drive through some city slum? When the only tree he touches is the cleverly fabricated plastic evergreen that shades his gifts on Christmas morning?
A morning-glory at my window satisfies me more than the metaphysics of books.
I still get wildly enthusiastic about little things... I play with leaves. I skip down the street and run against the wind.
Forests, lakes, and rivers, clouds and winds, stars and flowers, stupendous glaciers and crystal snowflakes - every form of animate or inanimate existence, leaves its impress upon the soul of man.
That man's best works should be such bungling imitations of Nature's infinite perfection, matters not much; but that he should make himself an imitation, this is the fact which Nature moans over, and deprecates beseechingly. Be spontaneous, be truthful, be free, and thus be individuals! is the song she sings through warbling birds, and whispering pines, and roaring waves, and screeching winds.
One of the most tragic things I know about human nature is that all of us tend to put off living. We are all dreaming of some magical rose garden over the horizon instead of enjoying the roses that are blooming outside our windows today.
How long can men thrive between walls of brick, walking on asphalt pavements, breathing the fumes of coal and of oil, growing, working, dying, with hardly a thought of wind, and sky, and fields of grain, seeing only machine-made beauty, the mineral-like quality of life?
All finite things reveal infinitude: The mountain withi its singular bright shade Like the blue shine on freshly frozen snow, The after-light upon ice-burdened pines; Odor of basswood upon a mountain slope, A scene beloved of bees; Silence of water above a sunken tree: The pure serene of memory of one man,-- A ripple widening from a single stone Winding around the waters of the world.
Forget not that the earth delights to feel your bare feet and the winds long to play with your hair.
A wet sheet and a flowing sea, A wind that follows fast And fills the white and rustling sails, And bends the gallant mast! And bends the gallant mast, my boys, While, like the eagle free, Away the good ship flies, and leaves Old England in the lee.
The winds and waves are always on the side of the ablest navigators.
Some love to roam o'er the dark sea's foam, Where the shrill winds whistle free.
Thus far we run before the wind.
Why does pouring Oil on the Sea make it Clear and Calm? Is it that the winds, slipping the smooth oil, have no force, nor cause any waves?
Far below and around lay the city like a ragged purple dream. The irregular houses were like the broken exteriors of cliffs lining deep gulches and winding streams. Some were mountainous; some lay in long, monotonous rows like, the basalt precipices hanging over desert canons. Such was the background of the wonderful, cruel, enchanting, bewildering, fatal, great city. But into this background were cut myriads of brilliant parallelograms and circles and squares through which glowed many colored lights. And out of the violet and purple depths ascended like the city's soul, sound and odors and thrills that make up the civic body. There arose the breath of gaiety unrestrained, of love, of hate, of all the passions that man can know. There below him lay all things, good or bad, that can be brought from the four corners of the earth to instruct, please, thrill, enrich, elevate, cast down, nurture or kill. Thus the flavor of it came up to him and went into his blood.
Some day this old Broadway shall climb to the skies, As a ribbon of cloud on a soul-wind shall rise, And we shall be lifted, rejoicing by night, Till we join with the planets who choir their delight, The signs in the streets and the signs in the skies Shall make a new Zodiac, guiding the wise, And Broadway make one with that marvelous stair That is climbed by the rainbow-clad spirits of prayer.
Up in the heights of the evening skies I see my City of Cities float In sunset's golden and crimson dyes: I look and a great joy clutches my throat! Plateau of roofs by canyons crossed: windows by thousands fire-furled-- O gazing, how the heart is lost in the Deepest City in the World.
The watch-dog's voice that bay'd the whispering wind, And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind: There all in sweet confusion sought the shade, And fill'd each pause the nightingale had made.
It is the hour when from the boughs The nightingale's high note is heard; It is the hour when lovers' vows Seem sweet in every whispered word; And gentle winds, and waters near, Make music to the lonely ear. Each flower the dews have lightly wet, And in the sky the stars are met, And on the wave is deeper blue, And on the leaf a browner hue, And in the heaven that clear obscure, So softly dark, and darkly pure. Which follows the decline of day, As twilight melts beneath the moon away.
The tall Oak, towering to the skies, The fury of the wind defies, From age to age, in virtue strong. Inured to stand, and suffer wrong.
Some write their wrongs in marble: he more just, Stoop'd down serene and wrote them on the dust, Trod under foot, the sport of every wind, Swept from the earth and blotted from his mind, There, secret in the grave, he bade them lie, And grieved they could not 'scape the Almighty eye.
A good intention but fixed and resolute - bent on high and holy ends, we shall find means to them on every side and at every moment; and even obstacles and opposition will but make us "like the fabled specter-ships," which sail the fastest in the very teeth of the wind.
