Through woods and mountain passes
The winds, like anthems, roll.

Who has seen the wind?
Neither you nor I:
But when the trees bow down their heads.
The wind is passing by.

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.

Thunder is the voice of God, and, therefore, to be dreaded.

The wind in a man's face makes him wise.

It is an all-too-human frailty to suppose that a favorable wind will blow forever.

One ship drives east and another drives west
With the selfsame winds that flow.
'Tis the set of sails and not the gales
Which tells us the way to go.

Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May.

Forget not that the earth delights to feel your bare feet and the winds long to play with your hair.

There are no limits to either time or distance, except as man himself may make them. I have but to touch the wind to know these things.

I have always loved rain ....... my psyche so commands!
For my ears, sweet refrain, as each precious drop lands
God's zenith of fluids setting the earth abloom
While the wet of the woods gives such glor'ius perfume
Leaves glist'ning like treasure as the raindrops cascade
Let my eyes take measure of nature's gift replayed
I shall always love rain, it fills all my senses
T'is a gift for my brain .... elixir that drenches

No one can write knowingly of the weather who walks bent over on wet days.

Everybody talks about the weather, but nobody does anything about it.

There is little chance that meteorologists can solve the mysteries of weather until they gain an understanding of the mutual attraction of rain and weekends.

Sunshine is delicious, rain is refreshing, wind braces up, snow is exhilarating; there is no such thing as bad weather just different kinds of good weather.

To watch this crystal globe just sent from heaven to associate with me. While these clouds and this sombre drizzling weather shut all in, we two draw nearer and know one another. The gathering in of the clouds with the last rush and dying breath of the wind, and then the regular dripping of twigs and leaves the country o'er, the impression of inward comfort and sociableness, the drenched stubble and trees that drop beads on you as you pass, their dim outline seen through the rain on all sides drooping in sympathy with yourself. These are my undisputed territory.

I saw two clouds at morning
Tinged by the rising sun,
And in the dawn they floated on
And mingled into one.

How beautiful is the rain!
After the dust and the heat,
In the broad and fiery street,
In the narrow lane,
How beautiful is the rain!

If you want the rainbow, you've got to put up with a little rain.

The drops of rain make a hole in the stone not by violence but by oft falling.

There's always a period of curious fear between the first sweet-smelling breeze and the time when the rain comes cracking down.

He maketh his sun to rise on the evil and on the good, and sendeth rain on the just and on the unjust.

Rain is grace; rain is the sky condescending to the earth; without rain, there would be no life.

When one has faith that the spring thaw will arrive, the winter winds seem to lose some of their punch.

Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.

Come, gentle Spring! ethereal Mildness! come.

Ah, summer, what power you have to make us suffer and like it.

Youth is like spring, an over-praised season more remarkable for biting winds than genial breezes. Autumn is the mellower season, and what we lose in flowers we more than gain in fruits.

My Sorrow, when she's here with me,
Thinks these dark days of autumn rain
Are beautiful as days can be;
She loves the bare, the withered tree;
She walks the sodden pasture lane.

Often in winter the end of the day is like the final metaphor in a poem celebrating death: there is no way out.

Winter lies too long in country towns; hangs on until it is stale and shabby, old and sullen.

Many of the phenomena of Winter are suggestive of an inexpressible tenderness and fragile delicacy. We are accustomed to hear this king described as a rude and boisterous tyrant; but with the gentleness of a lover he adorns the tresses of Summer.

O, Wind,
If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?

High in the hills ... long ago ... in the spring
As the snows melted ... I heard a brook sing
Refrains sweet and soft ... as the waters danced
O'er stones by the score ... the song thus enhanced
I opened my heart to this joyous noise ...
To the chorus of life nature employs
So simple a sound ... off'ring such pleasure
God's earth alive ... with this aural treasure

A river seems a magic thing. A magic, moving, living part of the very earth itself.

Rivers are highways that move on, and bear us whither we wish to go.

A lake is the landscape's most beautiful and expressive feature. It is earth's eye; looking into which the beholder measures the depth of his own nature.