You always have regime-friendly poets like Muhammad Mahdi al-Jawahiri, whose career basically spans the twentieth century. He's an anti-imperialist, friendly with the Communists, and somehow survives all that and is shuttling between Baghdad and Damascus depending on which way the winds are blowing with the Baathists and their competition. But he's not a regime stooge, he's independent.
But certain winds will make men's temper bad.
She's like a wind-up monkey that winds itself.
Big rocks are envy of little sands because little sands can travel with the winds. Every littleness has its own big advantages!
Joy mingled with sadness, even with grief, is the deepest human joy. It winds itself about the soul with indescribable sweetness, with a dim but unerring sense for what will some day be born of it.
The winds of grace blow all the time. All we need to do is set our sails.
Softly the loud peal dies, In passing winds it drowns, But breathes, like perfect joys, Tender tones.
To a crazy ship, all winds are contrary.
I am an atheist (or at best a Unitarian who winds up in church quite a lot).
For whom all winds are quiet as the sun, All waters as the shore.
If something is going on in my life, it winds up getting into my strip.
As long as I live, I'll hear waterfalls and birds and winds sing.
As Christian feel the changing winds of political climate, the blasts against their values in the media, the exclusion of the Christian faith from educational institutions, they begin to sense the dangers of complacency and of pietistical world flight.
Let the Dragon ride again on the winds of time.
As she fled fast through sun and shade The happy winds upon her play'd, Blowing the ringlet from the braid.
My opinion of my whole experience varies from time to time. In broad daylight, and at most seasons I am apt to think the greater part of it a mere dream; but sometimes in the autumn, about two in the morning when winds and animals howl dismally, there comes from inconceivable depths below a damnable suggestions of rhythmical throbbing. . . and I feel that the transition of Juan Romero was a terrible one indeed.
Like a four-sided porch I'm open to all winds.
You have a life and there are these volumes on either side that go unvisited; some day soon as the world winds he will lie beneath what he now stands on, dead as those insects whose sound he no longer hears, and the grass will go on growing, wild and blind.
There's a simple way to look at gender: Once upon a time, someone drew a line in the sans of culture and proclaimed with great self-importance, 'On this site, you are a man; on the other side, you are a woman. ' It's time for the winds of change to blow that line away. Simple.
It always amazes me how when we’re sure we’ve lost something for good, it winds up finding us.