34 Quotes Tagged: wind

Empty out the darkness that has accumulated at the bottom of your heart, all the words you refuse to say. Your heart is not a well to poison; remember that. When the secrets become too heavy to carry, whisper them to the wind to be whisked away.

Like wind — In it, with it, of it. Of it just like a sail, so light and strong that, even when it is bent flat, it gathers all the power of the wind without hampering its course.

Like light — In light, lit through by light, transformed into light. Like the lens which disappears in the light it focuses.

Like wind. Like light.

Just this — on these expanses, on these heights.

A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.

Strength is like the wind
now raging with the fierceness of a hurricane
determined to overcome any obstacle in its path
now vanishing into a breath-stealing stillness
when life hits too hard
and the soul gasps for relief
now stirring softly to whisper that it's okay
to struggle, to fail, to suffer, to rest
because life goes on
and strength will eventually rise again
to carry us through...
just maybe not right now.

While the train flashed through never-ending miles of ripe wheat, by country towns and bright-flowered pastures and oak groves wilting in the sun, we sat in the observation car, where the woodwork was hot to the touch and red dust lay deep over everything. The dust and heat, the burning wind, reminded us of many things. We were talking about what it is like to spend one’s childhood in little towns like these, buried in wheat and corn, under stimulating extremes of climate: burning summers when the world lies green and billowy beneath a brilliant sky, when one is fairly stifled in vegetation, in the color and smell of strong weeds and heavy harvests; blustery winters with little snow, when the whole country is stripped bare and gray as sheet-iron. We agreed that no one who had not grown up in a little prairie town could know anything about it. It was a kind of freemasonry, we said.

"I've lived to see my longings die"

I've lived to se my longings die:
My dreams and I have grown apart;
Now only sorrow haunts my eye,
The wages of a bitter heart.

Beneath the storms of hostile fate,
My flowery wreath has faded fast;
I live alone and sadly wait
To see when death will come at last.

Just so, when the winds in winter moan
And snow descends in frigid flakes,
Upon a naked branch, alone,
The final leaf of summer shakes!

When I opened my eyes I saw nothing but the pool of nocturnal sky, for I was lying on my back with out-stretched arms, face to face with that hatchery of stars. Only half awake, still unaware that those depths were sky, having no roof between those depths and me, no branches to screen them, no root to cling to, I was seized with vertigo and felt myself as if flung forth and plunging downward like a diver.

The plants and flowers
I raised about my hut
I now surrender
To the will
Of the wind

The winds that never moderation knew,
Afraid to blow too much, too faintly blew;
Or out of breath with joy, could not enlarge
Their straighten'd lungs or conscious of their charge.

The word of Mohammad is a voice direct from nature's own heart - all else is wind in comparison.

The dust dreams of the world it had once been. But the dust, alas, does not command the wind.

...mert maguk voltak a létezés, miközben a létezésből mégis ki voltak zárva, vagyis oly közel estek a létezéshez, hogy azonossá váltak vele, és a létezés nem látszik soha, így hát ha itt voltak is, amikor nem voltak itt, belőlük soha nem maradt semmi, csak a vágyakozás, hogy jöjjenek, csak a félelem, hogy jönni fognak, csak az emlékük maradt, hogy jártak itt, de a legfájóbb az volt, nézett föl Genji herceg unokája az égre, hogy amelyik egyszer itt volt, az soha többé nem jött vissza.

Islanders too
are for sculpting.

The wind I hear it sighing, with autumn's saddest sound; withered leaves all thick are lying, as spring-flowers on the ground. This dark night has won me to wander far away; old feelings gather fast upon me.

and half of learning to play is learning what not to play
and she's learning the spaces she leaves have their own things to say
and she's trying to sing just enough so that the air around her moves
and make music like mercy that gives what it is and has nothing to prove

she crawls out on a limb and begins to build her home
and it's enough just to look around and to know that she's not alone

up up up up up up up points the spire of the steeple
but god's work isn't done by god
it's done by people