The wind bloweth where it listeth, and thou hearest the sound
thereof, but canst not tell whence it cometh, read more

The wind bloweth where it listeth, and thou hearest the sound
thereof, but canst not tell whence it cometh, and whither it
goeth: so is every one that is born of the Spirit.

Perhaps the wind
Wails so in winter for the summer's dead,
And all sad sounds are nature's read more

Perhaps the wind
Wails so in winter for the summer's dead,
And all sad sounds are nature's funeral cries
For what has been and is not.

Bless the Lord, O my soul. O Lord my God, thou art very great;
thou art clothed with honour read more

Bless the Lord, O my soul. O Lord my God, thou art very great;
thou art clothed with honour and majesty.
Who coverest thyself with light as with a garment: who stretches
out the heavens like a curtain:
Who layeth the beams of his chambers in the waters: who maketh
the clouds his chariot: who walketh upon the wings of the wind:
Who maketh his angels spirits; his ministers a flaming fire:
Who laid the foundations of the earth, that it should not be
removed for ever.

Where hast thou wandered. gentle gale, to find
The perfumes thou dost bring?

Where hast thou wandered. gentle gale, to find
The perfumes thou dost bring?

The wind, the wandering wind
Of the golden summer eyes--
Whence is the thrilling magic
read more

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?

In measure, when it shooteth forth, thou wilt debate with it: he
stayeth his rough wind in the day read more

In measure, when it shooteth forth, thou wilt debate with it: he
stayeth his rough wind in the day of the east wind.

It's a warm wind, the west wind, full of birds' cries;
I never hear the west wind but tears read more

It's a warm wind, the west wind, full of birds' cries;
I never hear the west wind but tears are in my eyes.
For it comes from the west lands, the old brown hills,
And April's in the West wind, and daffodils.

A litle wind kindles; much puts out the fire.
[A little wind kindles; much puts out the fire.]

A litle wind kindles; much puts out the fire.
[A little wind kindles; much puts out the fire.]

The wind moans, like a long wail from some despairing soul shut
out in the awful storm!

The wind moans, like a long wail from some despairing soul shut
out in the awful storm!