The night was cloudless and absolutely without wind.
The butterflies slept on, and on, and on, with wings tightly folded together
until the rays of sun fell upon them the following morning,
and then as if touched with a magic wand,
the mighty colony wafted into the air.
I struck the board, and cried, No more:
I will abroad.
What? shall I ever sigh and pine?
My lines and life are free; free as the road,
Loose as the wind, as large as store.
Shall I be still in suit?
Have I no harvest but a thorn
To let me blood, and not restore
What I have lost with cordial fruit?
Sure there was wine
Before my sighs did dry it; there was corn
Before my tears did drown it;
Is the year only lost to me?
Have I no bays to crown it?
If a seperate personal Paradise exists for each of us mine must irreparably be planted with trees of words which the wind silvers like poplars, by people who see their confiscated justice given back, and by birds that even in the midst of the truth of death insist on singing in Greek and saying, eros, eros, eros.
The poorest man may in his cottage bid defiance to all the force of the crown. It may be frail - its roof may shake - the wind may blow through it - the storm may enter - the rain may enter - but the King of England cannot enter! - all his force dares not cross the threshhold of the ruined tenement!
Electricity, the peril the wind sings to in the wires on a gray day.
Such a fatigue of adjectives, a drone of alliterations, a huffing of hyphenated words hurdling the meter like tired horses. Such a faded upholstery of tears, stars, bells, bones, flood and blooda thud of consonants in tongue, night, dark, dust, seed, wound and wind.
As strong, as deep, as wide as is the sea,
Though by the wind made restless as the wind,
By billows fretted and by rocks confined,
So strong, so deep, so wide my love for thee.
The room smelled like a gust of wind from Satans anus.
There's the wind on the heath, brother; if I could only feel that, I would gladly live for ever.
There's night and day, brother, both sweet things; sun, moon, and stars, brother, all sweet things; there's likewise a wind on the heath. Life is very sweet, brother; who would wish to die?
The storm is over, the land hushes to rest:
The tyrannous wind, its strength fordone,
Is fallen back in the west.
Somewherein desolate wind-swept space
In Twilight-landin No-mans land
Two hurrying Shapes met face to face,
And bade each other stand.
All this is very good in theory, but in practice, you take a piece of iron, wind a wire around it, then plug the wire in. The core gets hot, the wires smoke, and the fuse blows. So you see, there are practical limitations to theory.
We hurry since everything hurries
And I shall never not return
Memories are all archaic horns
Silenced by the wind.
Thousands of pulpit orators have swayed their audiences as a wind sways standing corn; but in the result, those who were most affected differed nothing from their former selves. An effect of eloquence is sufficient to account for a vast amount of feeling at the moment; but to trace to this a moral power, by which a man, for his life long, overcomes his besetting sins, and adorns his name with Christian virtues, is to make sport of human nature.
God provides the wind, but man must raise the sails.
And yet, today the harbour is silted up, most of the city lies buried beneath sand dunes and the land has become a desert. As the population had grown and more people wanted more fields, so more of the forest that once stood around the city was cut down, until eventually it was all gone. With no roots to hold the soil, and no attempt to conserve it, it was carried away by the wind and the rain.
Goals are my north star. My compass. The map that guides me along the road I wish to travel. Goals are motivations with wind in their sails - they carry me forward despite the storms.
Rain slips through your fingers as easily as words blow away in the wind, and yet it has the power to destroy your whole world.
You expected to be sad in the fall. Part of you died each year when the leaves fell from the trees and their branches were bare against the wind and the cold, wintery light. But you knew there would always be the spring, as you knew the river would flow again after it was frozen. When the cold rains kept on and killed the spring, it was as though a young person died for no reason.
The leaves fall, the wind blows, and the farm country slowly changes from the summer cottons into its winter woods.
Two sounds of autumn are unmistakable...the hurrying rustle of crisp leaves blown along the street...by a gusty wind, and the gabble of a flock of migrating geese.
It was one of those March days when the sun shines hot and the wind blows cold: when it is summer in the light, and winter in the shade.
We write dust epitaphs for our vanquished enemies and watch them blow away in the desert wind.
I felt a joy in my heart, which seemed filled with love, love for the sun, the snow, the wind and the hills, love for everything around me. It was in this mood that I walked down the snow-covered path dotted with black footprints. Further down the footprints mingled and made dirty little puddles. I picked my way over the thickest snow because I loved the crunching of snow underfoot. With the sunlight pouring down and a breeze in my face I felt that balmy spring was coming to meet me.