Who nourish the million things that grow, ~James Oppenheim, "Sonnets: VI," War and Laughter, 1916 Campbell Leslie, 1898–1979), The Ghost and Mrs. It was one of those sunny, boisterous March days with great white clouds sailing across the blue sky, like full-rigged galleons, and a wind that blew tiles off roofs, and hats off heads, and banged doors and slammed windows. ~Æ (George William Russell), "Sacrifice," Homeward Songs by the Way, 1894 ~Dallas Kenmare Browne Kelsey (c.1905–1970), "The Music of Nature," 1931 Never silent, never still, the restless wind seeks everywhere some instrument on which to play its enchanting music. There is wonder in that wandering call in spring woodlands, when first it murmurs from afar, an almost inaudible stir and rumour, growing louder and ever louder as it sweeps through the forest and cries triumphantly in every tree. Listen to its shivering voice in the winter grass, the silky swish of its music in summer meadows, the dry whisper of its song in rushes and reeds. It plays on every bush and tree a different harmony, whistling in the thornbushes, surging in the pines and firs, rustling in the evergreens, in winter chanting a mighty anthem in the bare branches, in summer playing a gay, whispering tune among the leaves. The music of the wind has a hundred varied notes. Montgomery, Anne of Green Gables, 1908Ī furious night wind whips tree branches into a violent frenzy. Oh, there's so much scope for imagination in a wind! ~L. M. Lynde's garden and set the flowers dancing - and then I'll go with one great swoop over the clover field - and then I'll blow over the Lake of Shining Waters and ripple it all up into little sparkling waves. When I get tired of the trees I'll imagine I'm gently waving down here in the ferns - and then I'll fly over to Mrs. I'm going to imagine that I'm the wind that is blowing up there in those tree-tops. Childe-Pemberton, "Songs of Air," Nenuphar: The Four-fold Flower of Life, 1911 I would wrap your robe of flame about my heart. Of the sun-god, lord of life and light and heat,
I can hear your rose-red pinions, and they bearĮast wind! East wind! with the burnished golden wings, South wind! South wind! I can feel the rhythmic beat Sea-green are your pinions, and your garments curl
West wind! I can tell your coming by the way North wind! bearer of all bitter, bracing things North wind! leaving barren furrows on your track,. ~John Muir (1838–1914), A Thousand-Mile Walk To the Gulf, 1916 The substance of the winds is too thin for human eyes, their written language is too difficult for human minds, and their spoken language mostly too faint for the ears. Spooky wild and gusty swirling dervishes of rattling leaves race by, fleeing the windflung deadwood that cracks and thumps behind. ~Joan Didion, "Los Angeles Notebook," Slouching Towards Bethlehem, 1968 The wind shows us how close to the edge we are. ~Charles Dickens, The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club, 1836 The wind blew - not up the road or down it, though that's bad enough, but sheer across it, sending the rain slanting down like the lines they used to rule in the copybooks at school. Together they howled around the chestnut tree and rattled and throttled its branches, until it bowed and let the winds have their way. He joined another bully from the west who felt the same way. One autumn day a wind came out of the north, grey and gruff and looking for mischief. How refreshing is the breeze which now fans my forehead! - it seems like the sweet breath of a guardian Angel.
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