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Fall Asleep in under 5 Minutes 10 Hours of Relaxing Ocean Waves Sounds for Sleeping https://youtu.be/XhfMKTvoUEM 10 Hours of Relaxing Thunderstorm Sounds for Sleeping https://youtu.be/fRqMuMmXx1Y 9 Hours of Relaxing Island Wind Sounds for Sleeping https://youtu.be/-ztFzXp3LNY Subscribe to the channel: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCfJAy5huGQ40m2I0DFRN-yQ #relaxingmusic #whitenoise #whitenoiseforsleeping

Fall Asleep in under 5 Minutes 10 Hours of Relaxing Ocean Waves Sounds for Sleeping https://youtu.be/XhfMKTvoUEM 10 Hours of Relaxing Thunderstorm Sounds for Sleeping https://youtu.be/fRqMuMmXx1Y 9 Hours of Relaxing Island Wind Sounds for Sleeping https://youtu.be/-ztFzXp3LNY Subscribe to the channel: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCfJAy5huGQ40m2I0DFRN-yQ #relaxingmusic #whitenoise #whitenoisetosleep

Slow boiling up, on the horizon’s brim, Huge clouds arise, mountainous, dark and grim, Sluggish and slow upon the air they ride, As pitch-black ships o’er the blue ocean glide; Curling and hovering o’er the gloomy south, As curls the sulphur from the cannon’s mouth. More grizly in the sun the tempest comes, And through the wood with threatened vengeance hums, Hissing more loud and loud among the trees:– The frighted wild-wind trembles to a breeze, Just turns the leaf in terrifying sighs, Bows to the spirit of the storm, and dies. In wild pulsations beats the heart of fear, At the low rumbling thunder creeping near. The poplar leaf now resteth on its tree; And the mill-sail, once twirling rapidly, Lagging and lagging till each breeze had dropt, Abruptly now in hesitation stopt. The very cattle gaze upon the gloom, And seemly dread the threat’ned fate to come. The little birds sit mute within the bush, And nature’s very breath is stopt and hush. The shepherd leaves his unprotected flock, And flies for shelter in some scooping rock; There hides in fear from the dread boding wrath, Lest rocks should tremble when it sallies forth, And that almighty Power, that bids it roar, Hath seal’d the doom when time shall be no more. The cotter’s family cringe round the hearth, Where all is sadden’d but the cricket’s mirth: The boys through fear in soot-black corner push, And ‘tween their father’s knees for safety crush; Each leaves his plaything on the brick-barr’d floor, The idle top and ball can please no more, And oft above the wheel’s unceasing thrum The murmur’s heard to whisper,–“Is it come!” The clouds more dismal darken on the eye, More huge, more fearful, and of deeper dye; And, as unable to light up the gloom, The sun drops sinking in its bulging tomb. Now as one glances sky-ward with affright, Short vivid lightnings catch upon the sight; While like to rumbling armies, as it were, Th’ approaching thunder mutters on the ear, And still keeps creeping on more loud and loud, And stronger lightnings splinter through the cloud. An awe-struck monument of hope and fear, Mute expectation waits the terror near, That dreadful clap, that terminates suspense, When ruin meets us or is banish’d hence. The signal’s given in that explosive flash,– One moment’s pause–and then the horrid crash:– -Almighty, what a shock!–the jostled wrack Of nature seems in mingled ruins done; Astounded echo rives the terrors back, And tingles on the ear a dying swoon. Flash, peal, and flash still rend the melting cloud; All nature seems to sigh her race is o’er, And as she shrinks ‘neath chaos’ dismal shroud, Gives meek consent that suns shall shine no more. Where is the sinner now, with careless eye, Will look, and say that all is chance’s whim; When hell e’en trembles at God’s majesty, And sullen owns that nought can equal him? But clouds now melt like mercy into tears, And nature’s Lord his wrath in kindness stops: Each trembling cotter now delighted hears The rain fall down in heavy-pattering drops. The sun ‘gins tremble through the cloud again, And a slow murmur wakes the delug’d plain; A murmur of thanksgiving, mix’d with fear, For God’s great power and our deliverance here. Source: https://pickmeuppoetry.org/description-of-a-thunder-storm-by-john-clare/

The farthest thunder that I heard Was nearer than the sky, And rumbles still, though torrid noons Have lain their missiles by. The lightning that preceded it Struck no one but myself, But I would not exchange the bolt For all the rest of life. Indebtedness to oxygen The chemist may repay, But not the obligation To electricity. It founds the homes and decks the days, And every clamor bright Is but the gleam concomitant Of that waylaying light. The thought is quiet as a flake, — A crash without a sound; How life’s reverberation Its explanation found!

Any fool can get into an ocean But it takes a Goddess To get out of one. What’s true of oceans is true, of course, Of labyrinths and poems. When you start swimming Through riptide of rhythms and the metaphor’s seaweed You need to be a good swimmer or a born Goddess To get back out of them Look at the sea otters bobbing wildly Out in the middle of the poem They look so eager and peaceful playing out there where the water hardly moves You might get out through all the waves and rocks Into the middle of the poem to touch them But when you’ve tried the blessed water long Enough to want to start backward That’s when the fun starts Unless you’re a poet or an otter or something supernatural You’ll drown, dear. You’ll drown Any Greek can get you into a labyrinth But it takes a hero to get out of one What’s true of labyrinths is true of course Of love and memory. When you start remembering.

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. Her pleasure will not let me stay. She talks and I am fain to list: She's glad the birds are gone away, She's glad her simple worsted grey Is silver now with clinging mist. The desolate, deserted trees, The faded earth, the heavy sky, The beauties she so truly sees, She thinks I have no eye for these, And vexes me for reason why. Not yesterday I learned to know The love of bare November days Before the coming of the snow, But it were vain to tell her so, And they are better for her praise.

Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village though; He will not see me stopping here To watch his woods fill up with snow. My little horse must think it queer To stop without a farmhouse near Between the woods and frozen lake The darkest evening of the year. He gives his harness bells a shake To ask if there is some mistake. The only other sound’s the sweep Of easy wind and downy flake. The woods are lovely, dark and deep, But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep.

The waves trickle along my toes. The soft ocean sprays across my nose. The sand was compliant under my feet Exactly where the ocean and it decide to meet. The water rose and enveloped around my shin. The salt water numbing against the skin. A shell drifted, caught in the tide, A tiny crab adrift inside. The water drifted up to my hips, A million kisses from the ocean's lips. A gentle caress from the deep blue, Though it would've been better if it were from you... The water enveloped around my waist. A thousand tiny fingers around me laced. The horizon calls, it beckons me Out towards it, across the sea.

LORD of the winds! I feel thee nigh, I know thy breath in the burning sky! And I wait, with a thrill in every vein, For the coming of the hurricane! And lo! on the wing of the heavy gales, Through the boundless arch of heaven he sails; Silent, and slow, and terribly strong, The mighty shadow is borne along, Like the dark eternity to come; While the world below, dismayed and dumb, Through the calm of the thick hot atmosphere Looks up at its gloomy folds with fear. They darken fast—and the golden blaze Of the sun is quenched in the lurid haze, And he sends through the shade a funeral ray— A glare that is neither night nor day, A beam that touches, with hues of death, The clouds above and the earth beneath. To its covert glides the silent bird, While the hurricane’s distant voice is heard, Uplifted among the mountains round, And the forests hear and answer the sound. He is come! he is come! do ye not behold His ample robes on the wind unrolled? Giant of air! we bid thee hail!— How his gray skirts toss in the whirling gale; How his huge and writhing arms are bent, To clasp the zone of the firmament, And fold, at length, in their dark embrace, From mountain to mountain the visible space. Darker—still darker! the whirlwinds bear The dust of the plains to the middle air: And hark to the crashing, long and loud, Of the chariot of God in the thunder-cloud! You may trace its path by the flashes that start From the rapid wheels where’er they dart, As the fire-bolts leap to the world below, And flood the skies with a lurid glow. What roar is that?—’tis the rain that breaks, In torrents away from the airy lakes, Heavily poured on the shuddering ground, And shedding a nameless horror round, Ah! well-known woods, and mountains, and skies, With the very clouds!—ye are lost to my eyes. I seek ye vainly, and see in your place The shadowy tempest that sweeps through space, A whirling ocean that fills the wall Of the crystal heaven, and buries all. And I, cut off from the world, remain Alone with the terrible hurricane. Source: https://pickmeuppoetry.org/the-hurricane-by-william-cullen-bryant/

As the wind blows she sings in my ear she sings me a song I so love to hear. She sings of love, war and peace; she is so gentle she'll put your mind at ease. As she sings the trees dance to the rhythm from left to right the trees are swinging, as there leaves rustle and bustle in the air here she comes again singing clear. So be quiet to hear her sing for lots of songs she will bring.

Gentle lulling of the sea, Once again you beckon me. Caressing waves upon the shore Transporting me to years of yore. As a child, your charm I sought, Protecting me from battles fought. Upon your craggy cliff I sat To gaze in awe and wonder at The magic of your shimmering tide That restored ease and peace inside.

Dawned from the night star, with a callous sound. Since night to dawn, forever bound. Man had birthed fingernails for ice, within that same night. Man of dark, equipped with heaters as hands, as night bathed in stiff like cold. Freezing man’s shivering body, all over, from head to toes. Yet, dawn champions the blizzard, regardless of passing light, and fruitless cold. Forever the blizzard aspired bound, Born from the night star, destroyed by dawn.

The waves trickle along my toes. The soft ocean sprays across my nose. The sand was compliant under my feet Exactly where the ocean and it decide to meet. The water rose and enveloped around my shin. The salt water numbing against the skin. A shell drifted, caught in the tide, A tiny crab adrift inside. The water drifted up to my hips, A million kisses from the ocean's lips. A gentle caress from the deep blue, Though it would've been better if it were from you... The water enveloped around my waist. A thousand tiny fingers around me laced. The horizon calls, it beckons me Out towards it, across the sea.

Imperially free, The bay slow-widens out into the sea, Subdues its lordly headlands, cramps its shore, Hushes its breakers to a silent gleam, And yields itself entire for evermore To ocean's incommunicable dream. Who follows? What far-winged flight of soul Spurns the near dancing wave, And set and brave Beats out and out beyond all tame control Into the age-long sweep. The dim and dread horizons of the deep? look not behind At waning cottage and the friendly wood, Things warm and bright and fondly understood, Hearts dearly good. Be desperately deaf, be sternly blind Fling yourself out into forgetfulness, And press, press, press Through the austere, untrodden wastes of air, Seeking what thing is there. Yours not to say What you shall meet on this mysterious way, Red lightnings crashing through demonic night, Delicate seas that laugh into the light, The gaping mouths of monsters waiting grim, Sweet islands wreathed and dim, Or only barren wastes of mocking spray Ever rebuffing whom they still invite. Nor dare you feel Here in this welter of the infinite That you are less than it. Though purpose falter and though spirit reel With vastness of the waters and the dread Of nothingness, and though your soul is dead, And all is dead above you and below And in the fog-filled void to which you go Still must you go invincible, serene, Still must you proudly know You are but traversing your own demesne. And must we seek forever through the air? Must we forever bear This awful weight of loneliness, nor turn Back to the homely bay for which we yearn, Back to the cottage comforts fondly fair? Yes, comrade, yes? Whoever takes this path, At peril of hot shame and branding wrath Must not turn back, But press, press, press Upon the vague, unending, glorious track, Whate'er the ocean hath. Who once has felt the sea-sweep, nevermore May dare to know the confines of the shore.

I came with a roar from the western sky And over the western hill; I shook the rocks as I thundered by, And I bent the woods to my will. I came at two of the village clock, When the night was heavy with mirk; I carried a torch in one of my hands, And in one I carried a dirk. I hid the torch in my folds of rain, Till sudden I showed its glare; I plunged the dirk in the thick of the woods And splintered a pine-tree there. I kindled a fire in the forcst leaves, And put it out with my rain; I leaped with a howi from the western ridge And rushed o’er the western plain. I came at two of the village clock. And raced through the empty street. I slashed the houghs of the arching elms, And the high church tower I beat. I flung my rain through the shingled roofs And into the window—souse! The nightgowned folk with their lamps Hurried around the house. The children snuggled in awesome beds, And trembled to hear my shout; And yet it was pleasant, so safe within, So marvellous wild without. Then away from the town I flung myself, And into the eastern sea, Where the big black waves rose up with a roar And heavily welcomed me. I came and I went at the beck of the Lord, The Lord of storms and of men, And I crouch in my cave at the end of the world Till He beckons me forth again. Source: https://pickmeuppoetry.org/the-thunder-storm-by-amos-russel-wells/

I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky, And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by, And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking, And a gray mist on the sea's face, and a gray dawn breaking. I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied; And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying, And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying. I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life, To the gull's way and the whale's way, where the wind's like a whetted knife; And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover, And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.

The rain, the desolate rain! Ceaseless, and solemn, and chill! How it drips on the misty pane, How it drenches the darkened sill! O scene of sorrow and dearth! I would that the wind awaking To a fierce and gusty birth, Might vary this dull refrain Of the rain, the desolate rain: For the heart of heaven seems breaking In tears o’er the fallen earth, And again, again, again, We list to the sombre strain, The faint, cold monotone— Whose soul is a mystic moan— Of the rain, the mournful rain, The soft, despairing rain!

My mind has thunderstorms, That brood for heavy hours: Until they rain me words, My thoughts are drooping flowers And sulking, silent birds. Yet come, dark thunderstorms, And brood your heavy hours; For when you rain me words, My thoughts are dancing flowers And joyful singing birds.

The panther wind Leaps out of the night, The snake of lightning Is twisting and white, The lion of thunder Roars—and we Sit still and content Under a tree— We have met fate together And love and pain, Why should we fear The wrath of the rain!

Dawned from the night star, with a callous sound. Since night to dawn, forever bound. Man had birthed fingernails for ice, within that same night. Man of dark, equipped with heaters as hands, as night bathed in stiff like cold. Freezing man’s shivering body, all over, from head to toes. Yet, dawn champions the blizzard, regardless of passing light, and fruitless cold. Forever the blizzard aspired bound, Born from the night star, destroyed by dawn.

The Ocean has its silent caves, Deep, quiet, and alone; Though there be fury on the waves, Beneath them there is none. The awful spirits of the deep Hold their communion there; And there are those for whom we weep, The young, the bright, the fair. Calmly the wearied seamen rest Beneath their own blue sea. The ocean solitudes are blest, For there is purity. The earth has guilt, the earth has care, Unquiet are its graves; But peaceful sleep is ever there, Beneath the dark blue waves.

It took a hurricane, to bring her closer To the landscape Half the night she lay awake, The howling ship of the wind, Its gathering rage, Like some dark ancestral spectre, Fearful and reassuring: Talk to me Huracan Talk to me Oya Talk to me Shango And Hattie My sweeping, back-home cousin. Tell me why you visit An English coast? What is the meaning Of old tongues Reaping havoc In new places? The blinding illumination, Even as you short- Circuit us Into further darkness? What is the meaning of trees Falling heavy as whales Their crusted roots Their cratered graves? O why is my heart unchained? Tropical Oya of the Weather, I am aligning myself to you, I am following the movement of your winds, I am riding the mystery of your storm. Ah, sweet mystery, Come to break the frozen lake in me, Shaking the foundations of the very trees within me, Come to let me know That the earth is the earth is the earth. Source: https://pickmeuppoetry.org/hurricane-hits-england-by-grace-nichols/

The farthest thunder that I heard Was nearer than the sky, And rumbles still, though torrid noons Have lain their missiles by. The lightning that preceded it Struck no one but myself, But I would not exchange the bolt For all the rest of life. Indebtedness to oxygen The chemist may repay, But not the obligation To electricity. It founds the homes and decks the days, And every clamor bright Is but the gleam concomitant Of that waylaying light. The thought is quiet as a flake, — A crash without a sound; How life’s reverberation Source: https://pickmeuppoetry.org/the-farthest-thunder-that-i-heard-by-emily-dickinson/

As from the face of heaven the shattered clouds Tumultuous rove, the interminable sky Sublimer swells, and o’er the world expands A purer azure. Through the lightened air A higher luster and a clearer calm, Diffusive, tremble; while, as if in sign Of danger past, a glittering robe of joy, Set off abundant by the yellow ray, Invests the fields; and nature smiles revived. ‘T is beauty all, and grateful song around, Joined to the low of kine, and numerous bleat Of flocks thick-nibbling through the clovered vale: And shall the hymn be marred by thankless man, Most favored; who, with voice articulate, Should lead the chorus of this lower world? Shall man, so soon forgetful of the Hand That hushed the thunder, and serenes the sky, Extinguished fed that spark the tempest waked, That sense of powers exceeding far his own, Ere yet his feeble heart has lost its fears? Source: https://pickmeuppoetry.org/after-the-thunderstorm-by-james-thomson/