Come clean with a child heart Laugh as peaches in the summer wind Let rain on a house roof be a song Let the writing on your face be a smell of apple orchards on late June.
As for man, his days are like grass, he flourishes like a flower of the field; the wind blows over it and it is gone, and its place remembers it no more.
Anyone who imagines they can work alone winds up surrounded by nothing but rivals, without companions. The fact is, no one ascends alone.
He who neglects to pray alone and in private, however assiduously he frequents public meetings, there gives his prayers to the wind.
A giant once lived in that body. But Matt Brady got lost. Because he was looking for God too high up and too far away.
Love is the colour of spring sunshine muted through old windows. Love has a taste, a texture - dark chocolate with pistachios; a sound - wind chimes echoing from a distant hill; a rhythm - the tango, obviously.
And yet - and yet - one's kite will rise on the wind as far as ever one has string to let it go. It tugs and tugs and will go, and one is glad the further it goes, even if everybody else is nasty about it.
He laughs softly and gazes into my eyes, and it feels like everything stops. The wind stops rustling the grass. We both stop breathing. The only thing that keeps on are the twinkling stars.
Old places fire the internal weather of our pasts. The mild winds, aching calms, and hard storms of forgotten emotions return to us when we return to the spots where they happened.
We the mortals touch the metals, the wind, the ocean shores, the stones, knowing they will go on, inert or burning, and I was discovering, naming all the these things: it was my destiny to love and say goodbye.
I am forever walking upon these shores, Betwixt the sand and the foam, The high tide will erase my food prints, And the wind will blow away the foam, But the sea and the shore will remain forever.
I know everyone has dreams of flying, but this isn’t a dream of flying. It’s a dream of floating, and the ocean is not water but wind. I call it a dream, but it feels realer than my life.
I don't want to be the person who gasps in fear whenever she hears the sound of a doorbell or a phone. I just want to lose myself in these hills, in the river winding west to the city of bridges.
The wind helps me unwind. I make love like Don Quixote windmilled into history.
Lead yourself or someone else will. People can either be the wind on your sails or the anchor on your tail...you get to figure it out !
But we-' she glanced at him as if to ascertain his position, 'we see each other only now and then-' 'Like lights in a storm-' 'In the midst of a hurricane,' she concluded, as the window shook beneath the pressure of the wind.
It's like everyone tells a story about themselves inside their own head. Always. All the time. That story makes you what you are. We build ourselves out of that story.
The law of sympathy is one of the most basic parts of magic. It states that the more similar two objects are, the greater the sympathetic link. The greater the link, the more easily they influence each other.
What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Chronicler snapped. "You're just spouting nonsense now." "I'm spouting too much sense for you to understand," Bast said testily.
Auri," I asked slowly, "are you joking with me?" She looked up and grinned. "Yes I am," she said proudly. "Isn't it wonderful?
When I find the wind to say I love you, it will be breezy, like a hurricane.
