Contents
-BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD
C.N. Douglas, comp. Forty Thousand Quotations: Prose and Poetical. 1917.
Wind
Ill blows the wind that profits nobody.
Shakespeare.
While rocking winds are piping loud.
Milton.
How silent are the winds!
Barry Cornwall.
There is strange music in the stirring wind!
Rev. Wm. L. Bowles.
Is ’t possible? Sits the wind in that corner?
Shakespeare.
The winds are out of breath.
Dryden.
Is not thy home among the flowers?
William Cullen Bryant.
The hushed winds their Sabbath keep.
William Cullen Bryant.
The wind, a sightless laborer, whistles at his task.
Wordsworth.
The wind moans, like a long wail from some despairing soul shut out in the awful storm!
W. H. Gibson.
What wind blew you hither, Pistol?Not the ill wind which blows no man to good.
Shakespeare.
The winds with wonder whist,Smoothly the waters kisst.
Milton.
The wind breathes not, and the waveWalks softly as above a grave.
Bailey.
Seas are the fields of combat for the winds; but when they sweep along some flowery coast, their wings move mildly, and their rage is lost.
Dryden.
The sobbing wind is fierce and strong; its cry is like a human wail.
Susan Coolidge.
Do not the bright June roses blowTo meet thy kiss at morning hours?
William Cullen Bryant.
Full fast the leaves are droppingBefore that wandering breath.
William Cullen Bryant.
Except wind stands as it never stoodIt is an ill wind turns none to good.
Thomas Tusser.
I hear the wind among the trees playing celestial symphonies.
Longfellow.
I hear the howl of the wind that bringsThe long drear storm on its heavy wings.
William Cullen Bryant.
O wind,If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?
Shelley.
And maketh the clouds his chariot, and walketh upon the wings of the wind.
Bible.
As winds come lightly whispering from the west,Kissing, not ruffling the blue deep’s serene.
Byron.
The gentle wind, a sweet and passionate wooer,Kisses the blushing leaf.
Longfellow.
The winds of winter wailing through the woods;The mighty laughter of the vernal floods.
Abraham Coles.
When the gust hath blown his fill,Ending on the rustling leaves,With minute drops from off the eaves.
Milton.
Never does a wilder songSteal the breezy lyre along,When the wind in odors dying,Wooes it with enamor’d sighing.
Moore.
Take a straw and throw it up into the air, you may see by that which way the wind is.
John Selden.
A melancholy sound is in the air,A deep sigh in the distance, a shrill wailAround my dwelling. ’Tis the Wind of night.
William Cullen Bryant.
A gentle wind of western birth,From some far summer sea,Wakes daisies in the wintry earth.
George MacDonald.
Madame, bear in mindThat princes govern all things—save the wind.
Victor Hugo.
Where hast thou wandered, gentle gale, to findThe perfumes thou dost bring?
William Cullen Bryant.
Perhaps the windWails so in winter for the summer’s dead,And all sad sounds are nature’s funeral criesFor what has been and is not.
George Eliot.
Chill airs and wintry winds! my earHas grown familiar with your song;I hear it in the opening year,I listen, and it cheers me long.
Longfellow.
Through the gaunt woods the winds are shrilling cold,Down from the rifted rock the sunbeam poursOver the cold gray slopes, and stony moors.
Frederick Tennyson.
We wait for thy coming, sweet wind of the south!For the touch of thy light wings, the kiss of thy mouth;For the yearly evangel thou bearest from God,Resurrection and life to the graves of the sod!
Whittier.
Boughs are dally rifledBy the gusty thieves,And the book of NatureGetteth short of leaves.
Hood.
The morning wind the mead hath kissed;It leads in narrow linesThe shadows of the silver mist,To pause among the pines.
Ruskin.
Thou wind?Which art the unseen similitude of GodThe Spirit, His most meet and mightiest sign.
Bailey.
A wailing, rushing sound, which shook the walls as though a giant’s hand were on them; then a hoarse roar, as if the sea had risen; then such a whirl and tumult, that the air seemed mad; and then, with a lengthened howl, the waves of wind swept on.
Dickens.
The winds that never moderation knew,Afraid to blow too much, too faintly blew;Or out of breath with joy, could not enlargeTheir straighten’d lungs or conscious of their charge.
Dryden.
A fresher GaleBegins to wave the wood, and stir the stream,Sweeping with shadowy gust the fields of corn;While the Quail clamors for his running mate.
Thomson.
The faint old man shall lean his silver headTo feel thee; thou shalt kiss the child asleep,And dry the moistened curls that overspreadHis temples, while his breathing grows more deep.
Bryant.
A breeze came wandering from the sky,Light as the whispers of a dream;He put the o’erhanging grasses by,And softly stooped to kiss the stream,The pretty stream, the flattered stream,The shy, yet unreluctant stream.
Bryant.
I dropped my pen; and listened to the windThat sang of trees uptorn and vessels tost;A midnight harmony and wholly lostTo the general sense of men by chains confinedOf business, care, or pleasure,—or resignedTo timely sleep.
Wordsworth.
And the South Wind—he was dressedWith a ribbon round his breastThat floated, flapped, and flutteredIn it riotous unrestAnd a drapery of mistFrom the shoulder to the wristFloating backward with the motionOf the waving hand he kissed.
James Whitcomb Riley.
We must not think too unkindly even of the east wind. It is not, perhaps, a wind to be loved, even in its benignest moods; but there are seasons when I delight to feel its breath upon my cheek, though it be never advisable to throw open my bosom and take it into my heart, as I would its gentle sisters of the south and west.
Hawthorne.
Loud wind, strong wind, sweeping o’er the mountains,Fresh wind, free wind, blowing from the sea,Pour forth thy vials like streams from airy mountains,Draughts of life to me.
D. M. Mulock.
The bitter-sweet, the haunting airCreepeth, bloweth everywhere;It preys on all, all prey on it,Blooms in beauty, thinks in wit,Stings the strong with enterprise,Makes travellers long for Indian skies.
Emerson.
O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn’s being,Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves deadAre driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,Pestilence-stricken multitudes.
Shelley.
The wind, the wandering windOf the golden summer eves—Whence is the thrilling magicOf its tunes amongst the leaves?Oh, is it from the waters,Or from the long, tall grass?Or is it from the hollow rocksThrough which its breathings pass?
Mrs. Hemans.
Ye winds ye unseen currents of the air,Softly ye played a few brief hours ago;Ye bore the murmuring bee; ye tossed the airO’er maiden cheeks, that took a fresher glow;Ye rolled the round white cloud through depths of blue;Ye shook from shaded flowers the lingering dew;Before you the catalpa’s blossoms flew,Light blossoms, dropping on the grass like snow.
William Cullen Bryant.
The wind has a language, I would I could learn!Sometimes ’tis soothing, and sometimes ’tis stern,Sometimes it comes like a low sweet song,And all things grow calm, as the sound floats along,And the forest is lull’d by the dreamy strain,And slumber sinks down on the wandering main,And its crystal arms are folded in rest,And the tall ship sleeps on its heaving breast.
L. E. Landon.
The wind is rising; it seizes and shakesThe doors and window-blinds, and makesMysterious moanings in the halls;The convent-chimneys seem almostThe trumpets of some heavenly host,Setting its watch upon our walls!
Longfellow.
Wind of the sunny south! oh, still delayIn the gay woods and in the golden air,Like to a good old age released from care,Journeying, in long serenity, away.In such a bright, late quiet, would that IMight wear out life like thee, mid bowers and brooks,And, dearer yet, the sunshine of kind looks,And music of kind voices ever nigh;And when my last sand twinkled in the glass,Pass silently from men as thou dost pass.
Bryant.
I loved the Wind.Whether it kissed my hair and pallid brow;Whether with sweets my sense it fed, as now;Whether it blew across the scudding main;Whether it shrieked above a stretch of plain;Whether, on autumn days, in solemn woods,And barren solitudes,Along the waste it whirled the withered leaves;Whether it hummed around my cottage eaves,And shook the rattling doors,And died with long-drawn sighs, on bleak and dreary moors;Whether in winter, when its trump did blowThrough desolate gorges dirges of despair,It drove the snow-flakes slantly down the air,And piled the drifts of snow;Or whether it breathed soft in vernal hours,And filled the trees with sap, and filled the grass with flowers.
R. H. Stoddard.
