Best 2116 quotes in «wind quotes» category

Earth, water, fire, and wind are states of matter.

Earth, water, fire, and wind. Where there is energy there is life.

Emmi, chị không phải là Mia. Tôi đã không đặt mong đợi vào Mia – và ngược lại. Mia và tôi, chúng tôi bắt đầu từ vạch xuất phát, như khi hai người làm quen nhau trong điều kiện bình thường. Ở chúng ta thì khác, Emmi: chúng ta xuất phát từ vạch đích, và chỉ còn một hướng để chạy: ngược lại. Chúng ta hướng đến sự tỉnh ngộ bạo liệt. Chúng ta không được sống những gì viết ra. Chúng ta không thể thay thế vô số hình ảnh mà chúng ta đã vẽ ra về nhau. Sẽ là một thất vọng khi chị không bằng cô Emmi mà tôi biết. Và chị sẽ không bằng được! Chị sẽ buồn chán khi tôi không bằng tay Leo mà chị biết. Và tôi sẽ không bằng tay ấy! Sau cuộc gặp mặt đầu tiên (và duy nhất) chúng ta sẽ tỉnh ngộ chia tay nhau, uể oải như sau một bữa ăn ngồn ngộn nhưng không ngon miệng, vậy mà chúng ta đã sốt ruột cả một năm để chờ nó, đã hầm nhừ hầm tử mấy tháng liền. Rồi sao? Hết. Chấm dứt. Nuốt sạch. Làm như chẳng có gì xảy ra chăng? Emmi, lúc đó ta vĩnh viễn có trước mắt hình ảnh mất thiêng, phát lộ, trần tục, thất vọng và tan vỡ của người kia. Chúng ta sẽ không biết nên viết gì cho nhau. Rồi một lúc nào đó về sau, có một lúc ta chạm trán nhau trong tiệm cà phê hay dưới tàu điện ngầm. Chúng ta sẽ cố không nhận ra nhau hay lờ nhau đi, sẽ vội vã quay mặt qua hướng khác. Chúng ta sẽ ngượng ngùng nhận ra “chúng ta” đã trở thành cái gì và còn sót lại cái gì. Chẳng gì cả. Hai con người lạ lẫm, với một quá khứ ảo chung nhau, cái quá khứ đã lừa dối họ một cách bỉ ổi bao tháng ngày.

Even a leaf in the wind settles sometimes.

Faeries, come take me out of this dull world, For I would ride with you upon the wind, Run on the top of the dishevelled tide, And dance upon the mountains like a flame.

First, the wind would rumble in the distance like an approaching river, then he would see grass bend, pressed by a great invisible hand. The dull rumble would rise in pitch to a swishing, lashing exultation, causing stalks to lie flat against the ground while the tougher branches of shrubs held themselves up and shrieked their defiance in the gusts. Then the first drops, cold and heavy, would plummet from the sky and burst on the ground.

Hair tangled with the wind Sun kissed face Lover of the forest the sea the sky and anything wild and free She’s a gypsy goddess.

Here you are. Would you like some pickles?” “Pickles gives me the wind something awful.” “In that case—” “Oh, I wasn’t saying no,” Mistress Weatherwax said, taking two large pickled cucumbers.

He wraps his arms around me and holds me tight for a few seconds. His breaths tickle my ear, and I close my eyes, letting myself finally relax. He smells like wind and sweat and soap, like Tobias and like safety.

His mind lingered for a time in the hinterlands of sleep, words drifting over the border as though on a warm wind, unfastened from their meanings.

How I wish I was like the water, Flowing so freely with every drop Let my every emotion wonder, No need to start, nor even stop How I wish I was like the fire, Burning with every flame up Leaving a trace of hot desire As a Phoenix raises its' wings up How I wish I was like the earth, Raising each flower from the ground Seeing the beauty of death and birth And then returning to the ground How I wish I was like the wind, Hearing each whisper, sound and thought A lonesome and wandering little wind, Shattering all that has been sought Oh, how I wish I was where you are, Not separated by empty space, so far It seems like we're galaxies apart, But we find hope within our heart And how I wish I was all of the above, So I can come below and yet forget, The beauty of angels which come down like a dove And demons who love with no regret.

I am floating, I thought, completely without anchor, at the mercy of the wind.

I belong with the trees, the wind, the earth beneath my feet. I belong in the land of enchanting things. But mostly, I belong entwined in your kiss, lost, yet wild and free, pure bliss, like poetry.

I closed my eyes and turned my face into the cold wind. When I felt it swept along my skin there was no past. No future. Just now.

If everything I possessed, vanished, suddenly, I'd be sorry. But I value things unpossessed. The wind, and trees, and sky and kind thoughts, much more.

If your neighbor has wind chimes, you have wind chimes.

I inhale and a zephyr enters my body. The earth tilts its axis, changing my view of the heavens. Two clouds appear in the shape of trumpets. They part and rays of sunlight burst in. The sunlight speaks, 'Seek a new experience.

I long to drift through turquoise skies; race the wind in rampant flight. Ruddy chains have framed my eyes, they seize my heart and stain the light.

Imagination is a storm of emotions that has the power to sweep citadels into the wind.

Era come una mano di colore data sul venticello, sui muri gialletti della borgata, sui prati, sui carretti, sugli autobus coi grappoli agli sportelli. Una mano di colore ch'era tutta l'allegria e la miseria delle notti dell'estate del presente e del passato.

Everybody has a little bit of the sun and moon in them. Everybody has a little bit of man, woman, and animal in them. Darks and lights in them. Everyone is part of a connected cosmic system. Part earth and sea, wind and fire, with some salt and dust swimming in them. We have a universe within ourselves that mimics the universe outside. None of us are just black or white, or never wrong and always right. No one. No one exists without polarities. Everybody has good and bad forces working with them, against them, and within them. PART SUN AND MOON by Suzy Kassem

Fly high... Where the only chill that cuts through you is the wind. Where your heart pounds from exhilaration not disappointment and after ascending through cloudy wisps, brushing your wings, there is only the clear blue horizon beckoning you forth....

For me, walking in a hard Dakota wind can be like staring at the ocean: humbled before its immensity, I also have a sense of being at home on this planet, my blood so like the sea in chemical composition, my every cell partaking of air. I live about as far from the sea as is possible in North America, yet I walk in a turbulent ocean. Maybe that child was right when he told me that the world is upside-down here, and this is where angels drown.

Great winds only challenge great trees.

Her laughter sounded like April showers, like whispered secrets, like glass wind-chimes.

How many times did the sun shine, how many times did the wind howl over the desolate tundras, over the bleak immensity of the Siberian taigas, over the brown deserts where the Earth’s salt shines, over the high peaks capped with silver, over the shivering jungles, over the undulating forests of the tropics! Day after day, through infinite time, the scenery has changed in imperceptible features. Let us smile at the illusion of eternity that appears in these things, and while so many temporary aspects fade away, let us listen to the ancient hymn, the spectacular song of the seas, that has saluted so many chains rising to the light.

I enjoy many types of music, but to my ears, there’s none more soothing or calming than the music a tree makes as wind passes through its leaves.

I forget what the weather was like that day, probably cloudy with a chance of emotion. All I remember is that it was windy; it was the type of wind that would blow your words in the opposite direction so they would never be heard.

If the foundation of your house is righteousness then your wealth will not be like a cardboard house that collapses under a gentle blow of wind

If the wind brushes against you, do not complain; it brushes against everyone.

If the wind stops blowing, it is not a wind. It is nothing.

If you move faster than the music, it will look strange; if you move slower than the music, it will look strange! Be like autumn leaves which follow exactly the rhythm of the wind!

I Have Learned Why People Work So Hard To Succeed: It Is Because They Envy The Things Their Neighbors Have. But It Is Useless. It Is Like Chasing The Wind....It Is Better To Have Only A Little, With Peace Of Mind, Than Be Busy All The Time With Both Hands, Trying To Catch The Wind

I know I’m not the only one whose life is a conditional clause hanging from something to do with spring and one tall room and the tremble of my phone. I’m not the only one that love makes feel like a dozen flapping bedsheets being ripped to prayer flags by the wind.

I listen to the sound of India's voices for the last time . Laughter ripples like water . A prayer is a single note held long . There is so much life here . And too much death.I feel a soft brezze caress my face and I look up. An orange ribbon is floating through the air . In India , it's easy to see the wind .

I live in the Temple of Winds; Amid the night, Amid the light, Amid the half-light.

Initially they waited with hope, but as each hour passed, hope slipped away like the wind, the wind that as a small boy Ethan had once tried to capture with his tiny fingers.

In judging of that tempestuous wind called Euroclydon," says an old writer - of whose works I possess the only copy extant - "it maketh a marvelous difference, whether thou lookest out at it from a glass window where the frost is all on the outside, or whether thou observest it from that sashless window, where the frost is on both sides, and of which the wight Death is the only glazier."... Euroclydon, nevertheless, is a mighty pleasant zephyr to any one in-doors, with his feet on the hob quietly toasting for bed.

In the fall of leaves, In the hustle of breeze, In the curve of streams, I foresee, Nature keeps more concealed, Than it lets us peep!

...I recall that day on the beach - the sand so brilliant, the clouds so massive, and the wind punishing your hair...

In the waltz of the leaves in the air In the features of the playful clouds In the nostalgia carried by the wind In Paris alone, I save your love (fragment from Your presence “partout”, chapter Hope)

Intriguing isn't it? One day you are the king of your world. And the next day, you stand aside, watching it all burn. Ashes slipping out of your hand, you just stand and stare, your glassy gaze fixed on something no one else could see, no one else could know... People will talk as people do talk. And they will walk over the ashes. And the ashes will dance in front of you, reminding you every second of what was and what might have been. And you will almost give in. But my advice is, don’t give in. Because one day, you will decide to turn the corner. Put it all behind you. Just stand strong and still as the great wind comes and takes all the ashes away with with it, leaving fresh air behind. Fresh for you to make a new world, a better world.

I see you better in music, I hear you better in wind, I feel you more in a flooding moonlight, that understands nothing, but darkness and silence.

I sit alone in a dead world. The wind blows hot and dry, and the dust gathers like particles of memory waiting to be swept away. I pray for forgetfulness, yet my memory remains strong, as does the outstretched arm of the oppressive air. It seems as if the wind has been there since the beginning of the nightmare. Sometimes loud and harsh, a thousand sharp needles scratching at my reddened skin. Sometimes a whisper, a curious sigh in the black of night, of words more frightening than pain. I know now the wind has been speaking to me. Only I couldn't understand because I was too scared. I am scared now as I write these words. Still, there is nothing else to do.

It is always easy to flow with the river and to run with the wind! But glory and honour are often not found in easy things!

I spur my horse past the ruined city; the ruined city, that wakes the traveler's thoughts: ancient battlements, high and low; old grave mounds, great and small. Where the shadow of a single tumbleweed trembles and the voice of the great trees clings forever, I sigh over all these common bones -- No roll of the immortals bears their names.

I stroke the bleached bones of ancient trees felled long-ago by industry or cold desperation and wonder of another almost summer when two fell asleep beneath her arms, curling into each other like wind-swept branches on the edge of tomorrow ...

It is in vain to try and kick the wind.

It is He who makes the lightning flash upon you, inspiring you with fear and hope, and gathers up the heavy clouds. The thunder sounds His praises, and the angels, too, in awe of him. He hurls his thunderbolts at whom He pleases. Yet the unbelievers wrangle about God.

It's like a nesting doll of imagination! It's like a painting of a painting! It's like the wind catching a chill from the wind, or a wave taking a dip in the ocean. It's like reading a novel that merely describes another novel. It's like music tapping its foot to a tune and saying 'Oh! I love this song!