- We just sit tight while wind dives
And strafes invisibly. Space is a salvo,
We are bombarded by the empty air.
Strange, it is a huge nothing that we fear.
1939–2013 Irish poet: ‘Storm on the Island’ (1966)
- On Wenlock Edge the wood's in trouble;
His forest fleece the Wrekin heaves;
The gale, it plies the saplings double,
And thick on Severn snow the leaves.
A Shropshire Lad (1896) no. 31 1859–1936 English poet:
- Welcome, wild North-easter!
Shame it is to see
Odes to every zephyr;
Ne'er a verse to thee.
1819–75 English writer and clergyman: ‘Ode to the North-East Wind’ (1858)
- No one can tell me,
Where the wind comes from,
Where the wind goes.
Now We are Six ‘Wind on the Hill’ (1927) 1882–1956 English writer for children:
- O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being,
Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead
Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,
Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,
1792–1822 English poet: ‘Ode to the West Wind’ (1819) l. 1