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The grass was white with frost on the shadowed sides of the reservation hills and ditches, but the morning air was almost warm, sweetened by a southern wind. Father Damien’s best hours were late at night and just after rising, when all he’d had to break his fast was a cup of hot water. He was old, very old, but alert until he had to eat
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The hushed winds their Sabbath keep.
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The hushed winds wail with feeble moan Like infant charity.
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The morning wind the mead hath kissed; It leads in narrow lines The shadows of the silver mist, To pause among the pines.
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The rain was dashing in torrents against the window-panes, and the wind sweeping in heavy and fitful gusts along the dreary and deserted streets, as a party of three persons sat over their wine, in that stately old pile which once formed the resort of the Irish Members, in College Green, Dublin, and went by the name of Daly’s Clubhouse
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The snow, which had fallen quietly at first, was now pelting against the windowpanes, driven by a wicked wind; the storm was rapidly assuming proportions of a blizzard.
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The sobbing wind is fierce and strong; its cry is like a human wail.
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The Westerly Wind asserting his sway from the south-west quarter is often like a monarch gone mad, driving forth with wild imprecations the most faithful of his courtiers to shipwreck, disaster, and death.
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The wind breathes not, and the wave Walks softly as above a grave.
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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.
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The wind is awake, pretty leave, pretty leaves, Heed not what he says, he deceives, he deceives; Over and over To the lowly clover He has lisped the same love (and forgotten it, too). He will be lisping and pledging to you.
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The wind is rising; it seizes and shakes The doors and window-blinds, and makes Mysterious moanings in the halls; The convent-chimneys seem almost The trumpets of some heavenly host, Setting its watch upon our walls!
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The wind moans, like a long wail from some despairing soul shut out in the awful storm!
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The wind, a sightless laborer, whistles at his task.
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The wind, the wandering wind Of the golden summer eyes– Whence is the thrilling magic Of its tunes amongst the leaves? Oh, is it from the waters, Or from the long, tall grass? Or is it from the hollow rocks Through which its breathings pass?
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The winds are out of breath.
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The wind’s in the east. . . . I am always conscious of an uncomfortable sensation now and then when the wind is blowing in the east.
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The winds of winter wailing through the woods; The mighty laughter of the vernal floods.
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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.
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The winds with wonder whist, Smoothly the waters kisst.
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