Quotes on Wind

There's a simple way to look at gender: Once upon a time, someone drew a line in the sans of culture and proclaimed with great self-importance, 'On this site, you are a man; on the other side, you are a woman.' It's time for the winds of change to blow that line away. Simple.

My thoughts are crabbed and sallow,_x000D_ _x000D_ My tears like vinegar,_x000D_ _x000D_ Or the bitter blinking yellow_x000D_ _x000D_ Of an acetic star._x000D_ _x000D_ Tonight the caustic wind, love,_x000D_ _x000D_ Gossips late and soon,_x000D_ _x000D_ And I wear the wry-faced pucker of_x000D_ _x000D_ The sour lemon moon._x000D_ _x000D_ While like an early summer plum,_x000D_ _x000D_ Puny, green, and tart,_x000D_ _x000D_ Droops upon its wizened stem_x000D_ _x000D_ My lean, unripened heart.

Like roots finding water, we always wind up moving towards what sustains us.

There is a muscular energy in sunlight corresponding to the spiritual energy of wind.

Imagination is a tree. It has the integrative virtues of a tree. It is root and boughs. It lives between earth and sky. It lives in the earth and the wind. The imagined tree imperceptibly becomes a cosmological tree, the tree which epitomises a universe, which makes a universe.

I return to the newborn world, and the soft-soil fields, What their first birthing lifted to the shores Of light, and trusted to the wayward winds. First the Earth gave the shimmer of greenery And grasses to deck the hills; then over the meadows The flowering fields are bright with the color of springtime, And for all the trees that shoot into the air.

The generation of mankind is like the generation of leaves. The wind scatters the leaves on the ground, but the living tree burgeons with leaves again in the spring.

Only as the written text began to speak would the voices of the forest, and of the river, begin to fade. And only then would language loosen its ancient association with the invisible breath, the spirit sever itself from the wind, the psyche dissociate itself from the environing air.

The watch-dog's voice that bay'd the whispering wind, And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind.

Sweet it is, when on the high seas the winds are lashing the waters, to gaze from the land on another's struggles.

Indoors or out, no one relaxes _x000D_ In March, that month of wind and taxes, _x000D_ The wind will presently disappear, _x000D_ The taxes last us all the year.

Everybody knows that everybody dies. But not every day. Not today. Some days are special. Some days are so, so blessed. Some days, nobody dies at all. Now and then, every once in a very long while, every day in a million days, when the wind stands fair and the Doctor comes to call, everybody lives.

We all like to congregate at boundary conditions. Where land meets water. Where earth meets air. Where bodies meet mind. Where space meets time. We like to be on one side, and look at the other.

Climbing up on Solsbury Hill_x000D_ _x000D_ I could see the city light_x000D_ _x000D_ Wind was blowing, time stood still_x000D_ _x000D_ Eagle flew out of the night_x000D_ _x000D_ He was something to observe_x000D_ _x000D_ Came in close, I heard a voice_x000D_ _x000D_ Standing stretching every nerve_x000D_ _x000D_ I had to listen, had no choice

There is an Eye that never sleeps, Beneath the wind of night. There is an ear that never shuts, When sinks the beams of light. There is an Arm that never tires, When human strength gives way. There is a Love that never fails, When earthly loves decay.

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

I must down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life, To the gull's way and the whale's way where the wind's like a whetted knife And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow rover, And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.

That tower of strength Which stood four-square to all the winds that blew.

Because I helped to wind the clock, I come to hear it strike.

Joy mingled with sadness, even with grief, is the deepest human joy. It winds itself about the soul with indescribable sweetness, with a dim but unerring sense for what will some day be born of it.

And every stone and every star a tongue, And every gale of wind a curious song. The Heavens were an oracle, and spoke Divinity: the Earth did undertake The office of a priest; and I being dumb (Nothing besides was dumb) all things did come With voices and instructions.