Quotes on Breeze

What is now the foliage moving?_x000D_ _x000D_ Air is still, and hush'd the breeze,_x000D_ _x000D_ Sultriness, this fullness loving,_x000D_ _x000D_ Through the thicket, from the trees._x000D_ _x000D_ Now the eye at once gleams brightly,_x000D_ _x000D_ See! the infant band with mirth_x000D_ _x000D_ Moves and dances nimbly, lightly,_x000D_ _x000D_ As the morning gave it birth,_x000D_ _x000D_ Flutt'ring two and two o'er earth.

The summer breeze was blowing on your face_x000D_ _x000D_ Within your violet you treasure your summery words_x000D_ _x000D_ And as the shiver from my neck down to my spine_x000D_ _x000D_ Ignited me in daylight and nature in the garden

In such a performance you may lay the foundation of national happiness only in religion, not by leaving it doubtful "whether morals can exist without it," but by asserting that without religion morals are the effects of causes as purely physical as pleasant breezes and fruitful seasons.

I'm just delighted to be living, to be able to have a simple conversation, to feel a ray of sunlight on my skin and listen to the breeze move through the leaves of a tree.

I know you think this world is too dark to even dream in color, but I’ve seen flowers bloom at midnight. I’ve seen kites fly in gray skies and they were real close to looking like the sunrise, and sometime it takes the most wounded wings the most broken things to notice how strong the breeze is, how precious the flight.

How life is strange and changeful, and the crystal is in the steel at the point of fracture, and the toad bears a jewel in its forehead, and the meaning of moments passes like the breeze that scarcely ruffles the leaf of the willow.

Over the weekend the vultures got into the presidential palace by pecking through the screens on the balcony windows and the flapping of their wings stirred up the stagnant time inside, and at dawn on Monday the city awoke out of its lethargy of centuries with the warm, soft breeze of a great man dead and rotting grandeur.

The principle tragedy of my life is, like all tragedies, an irony of Destiny. I reject real life as if it were a condemnation; I reject dreams as if they were an ignoble liberation. [...]After the end of the stars uselessly whitened in the morning sky and the breeze became less cold in the barely orange tinged in the yellow of the light on the scattered low clouds, I, who hadn't slept, could finally, slowly raise my body, exhausted from nothing from the bed from which I had thought the universe.

There is no glory in star or blossom till looked upon by a loving eye; There is no fragrance in April breezes till breathed with joy as they wander by.

I suppose it is submerged realities that give to dreams their curious air of hyper-reality. But perhaps there is something else as well, something nebulous, gauze-like, through which everything one sees in a dream seems, paradoxically, much clearer. A pond becomes a lake, a breeze becomes a storm, a handful of dust is a desert, a grain of sulphur in the blood is a volcanic inferno. What manner of theater is it, in which we are at once playwright, actor, stage manager, scene painter and audience?

By then Esthappen and Rahel had learned that the world had other ways of breaking men. They were already familiar with the smell. Sicksweet. Like old roses on a breeze.

Summer bachelors, like summer breezes, are never as cool as they pretend to be.

I also learned that you didn’t come onto this earth as a perfectionist or control freak. You weren’t born a person of cringe and contraction. You were born as energy, as life, made of the same stuff as stars, blossoms, breezes. You learned contraction to survive, but that was then. You have paid through the nose-paid but good. It is now your turn to reap.

Meditation is like the breeze that comes in when you leave the window open; but if you deliberately keep it open, deliberately invite it to come, it will never appear.

Beneath the light, the river and hills are beautiful, The spring breeze bears the fragrance of flowers and grass. The mud has thawed, and swallows fly around. On the warm sand, mandarin ducks are sleeping.

The breezes taste Of apple peel. The air is full Of smells to feel- Ripe fruit, old footballs, Burning brush, New books, erasers, Chalk, and such. The bee, his hive, Well-honeyed hum, And Mother cuts Chrysanthemums. Like plates washed clean With suds, the days Are polished with A morning haze.

Come into the garden, Maud, For the black bat, night, has flown Come into the garden, Maud, I am here at the gate alone: And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad, And the musk of the rose is blown. For a breeze of morning moves, And the planet of Love is on high, Beginning to faint in the light that she loves On a bed of daffodil sky.

Now the seasons are closing their files_x000D_ on each of us, the heavy drawers_x000D_ full of certificates rolling back_x000D_ into the tree trunks, a few old papers_x000D_ flocking away. Someone we loved_x000D_ has fallen from our thoughts,_x000D_ making a little, glittering splash_x000D_ like a bicycle pushed by a breeze._x000D_ Otherwise, not much has happened;_x000D_ we fell in love again, finding_x000D_ that one red feather on the wind.

The breeze and the dew make tranquil the clear dawn;_x000D_ _x000D_ Behind the curtain there is one who alone is up betimes._x000D_ _x000D_ The orioles sing and the flowers smile -_x000D_ _x000D_ Whose then, after all, is the Spring?

Oh! that we two were Maying_x000D_ _x000D_ Down the stream of the soft spring breeze;_x000D_ _x000D_ Like children with violets playing,_x000D_ _x000D_ In the shade of the whispering trees.

Over the years, one comes to measure a place, too, not just for the beauty it may give, the balminess of its breezes, the insouciance and relaxation it encourages, the sublime pleasures it offers, but for what it teaches. The way in which it alters our perception of the human. It is not so much that you want to return to indifferent or difficult places, but that you want to not forget.