Best 1847 quotes in «rain quotes» category

She awaits the rain like a writer embraces metaphors, A drizzle isn't for the child who dances in the storm. Of rain that washes away the petrichor it brings, A downpour of a hail of bullets, and she calls it spring.

She danced in the shower of my words & I fell softly: Upon her.

She gathered the books like clouds and words poured down like rain.

She had a beautiful laugh which was like rain water pouring over daffodils made from silver.

She inhaled again. 'You made it rain,' she said softly, delighted. 'Everyone needs a respite from the sun.

She isn't here, but around here, in a deep rain disappearing.

She leaves my side and heads deeper into the apartment singing, “—if the spirit tries to hide, its temple far away… a copper for those they ask, a diamond for those who stay.

She lay outside in the courtyard, staring up at the raindrops… feeling them hit her body… trying to guess where one would land next. The nuns called again, threatening that pneumonia might make an insufferably headstrong child a lot less curious about nature.

She sat there alone after getting drenched enough by rain. In the silence of the midnight, Each drop that fell made a sound that was loud enough to wake all the memories inside her one after the other, before she could know what was happening she was lost somewhere in the past where the pictures in mind pushed her into a state of chaotic happiness and a blissful pain.

She sheltered her colors in the dark, where others were blind to see; I caught a glimpse of her lastly when she gave me a chance, before disappearing into the day. There was beauty locked in her that unfolded like an umbrella's claw, her true self that desired compassion, trust, protection and the potential to soar. But I missed to late, that what I wasn't looking for, when she left her reasons in the rain.

She told me she was 17 going on 22, when she left home to find a new life in the city. She wanted to get into acting and be a big star someday. I said that was swell but a tough racket to break into. She said she knew that going in. She thought maybe she'd get a lucky break and go from there. I told her lucky breaks always came with a price.

She was rain to a parched desert She was color to a gray sky She was the butterfly you longed to possess But I let her fly For fear of breaking her delicate wings!

She was rain to a parched desert She was color to a gray sky She was the beautiful butterfly you longed to possess But I let her fly For fear of breaking her wings!

Silence gradually spread its great, fragile butterfly wings across the ward. The sun had disappeared, replaced by grey and rain. This particular month of July was reading the script for March.

Sitting on the porch alone, listening to them fixing supper, he felt again the indignation he had felt before, the sense of loss and the aloneness, the utter defenselessness that was each man's lot, sealed up in his bee cell from all the others in the world. But the smelling of boiling vegetables and pork reached him from the inside, the aloneness left him for a while. The warm moist smell promised other people lived and were preparing supper. He listened to the pouring and the thunder rumblings that sounded hollow like they were in a rainbarrel, shared the excitement and the coziness of the buzzing insects that had sought refuge on the porch, and now and then he slapped detachedly at the mosquitoes, making a sharp crack in the pouring buzzing silence. The porch sheltered him from all but the splashes of the drops that hit the floor and their spray touched him with a pleasant chill. And he was secure, because someewhere out beyond the wall of water humanity still existed, and was preparing supper.

sleeping in the rain helps me forget things like I am going to die and you are going to die and the cats are going to die but it's still good to stretch out and know you have arms and feet and a head, hands, all the parts, even eyes to close once more, it really helps to know these things, to know your advantages and your limitations, but why do the cats have to die, I think that the world should be full of cats and full of rain, that's all, just cats and rain, rain and cats, very nice, good night.

SLEEPING ON A NIGHT OF AUTUMN RAIN It's cold this night in autumn's third month, Peacefully within, a lone old man. He lies down late, the lamp already gone out, And beautifully sleeps amid the sound of rain. The ash inside the vessel still warm from the fire, Its fragrance increases the warmth of quilt and covers. When dawn comes, clear and cold, he does not rise, The red frosted leaves cover the steps.

Some people say the rain with no purpose and others say with memories and wishes

So I went back in time and told her how I liked the smell of soil after the rain. It has a special place in my heart. It reminds me of my childhood days. Days spent in happiness and tranquility.

Some days you get up and you already know that things aren't going to go well. They're the type of days when you should just give in, put your pajamas back on, make some hot chocolate and read comic books in bed with the covers up until the world looks more encouraging. Of course, they never let you do that.

Some people hate the rain, other appreciate it for the blooming flowers.

something about the sound of rain on windows keeps me warm. when I remember all those times: slow dancing under storms

sometimes falling rain carries memories of betrayal there in the woods where she was not meant to be too young she believes in her right to be free in her body free from harm believing nature a wilderness she can enter be solaced believing the power that there be sacred place that there can be atonement now she returns with no fear facing the past ready to risk knowing these woods now hold beauty and danger

Snap your finger stop the world - rain falls harder

...so even if spring continues to disappoint we can say at least the lettuce loved the rain.

Someday, your heart will pour out the same way it did for me till now. But by the time you shall realize it, I will be gone forever, with all the water in the river inside me completely dried up. You will call out my name to save you from getting washed away in the stream that has just started running inside you. But you will find no hands to save you from yourself.

sometimes i don't know, which moment which cool gust of wind will come, and enchant me tousling my hair and my heart, stirring...that familiar ache of poetry, which drop will kiss the old wrench in my soul reminding me, all over again i miss you better in the rain.

Sometimes rain of monsoon is not enough until love one is there.

Sometimes the rain falls just for you and me to be the violin playing in the background of our loneliness's song.

Sometimes i were advised by the nature - be strong but sensitive, regal yet relatable and a bit harsh in your subtle; just like a sunset, even though it was covered by heavy rain and thick cloud, it still shows its beauty at the end of the day, just to show how strong and sensitive it was facing those rain and cloud (Ejump, 2017)

Sometimes the clouds weren't weightless. Sometimes their bellies got dark and full. It was life. It happened. It didn't mean it wasn't scary, or that I wasn't still afraid, but now I knew that as long as I was standing under it with Braden beside me when those clouds broke, I'd be alright. We'd get rained on together. Knowing Braden he'd have a big ass umbrela to shelter us from the worst of it. That there was an uncertain future I could handle.

Stars are only the rain of the Absolute.

still other winters average their rain months into a long, cold season of relentless sog and little color. At such times, looking out through the spattered glass, I feel, deep in some spongy, unignorable organ, that we will have floods, and damage, and losses; we will have gray till the cows come home, and there will be no more cows--they'll all just rot, drown, or simply wash away. We will have rain until the very hills dissolve. And when the dirty cotton swaddling of fog finally falls away, we will all be desperate for vital signs.

The earth was thirsty, with the memories of trees long cut, and it’s surface hardened, that long since rain soaked.

Tears dont show in rain but you feel them

The ceaseless rain is falling fast, And yonder gilded vane, Immovable for three days past, Points to the misty main, It drives me in upon myself And to the fireside gleams, To pleasant books that crowd my shelf, And still more pleasant dreams, I read whatever bards have sung Of lands beyond the sea, And the bright days when I was young Come thronging back to me. In fancy I can hear again The Alpine torrent's roar, The mule-bells on the hills of Spain, The sea at Elsinore. I see the convent's gleaming wall Rise from its groves of pine, And towers of old cathedrals tall, And castles by the Rhine. I journey on by park and spire, Beneath centennial trees, Through fields with poppies all on fire, And gleams of distant seas. I fear no more the dust and heat, No more I feel fatigue, While journeying with another's feet O'er many a lengthening league. Let others traverse sea and land, And toil through various climes, I turn the world round with my hand Reading these poets' rhymes. From them I learn whatever lies Beneath each changing zone, And see, when looking with their eyes, Better than with mine own.

The dead do not need aspirin or sorrow, I suppose. but they might need rain. not shoes but a place to walk. not cigarettes, they tell us, but a place to burn. or we're told: space and a place to fly might be the same. the dead don't need me. nor do the living. but the dead might need each other. in fact, the dead might need everything we need and we need so much if we only knew what it was. it is probably everything and we will all probably die trying to get it or die because we don't get it. I hope you will understand when I am dead I got as much as possible.

The drops of rain let them fall I want to remain thirsty...

Storm Ending Thunder blossoms gorgeously above our heads, Great, hollow, bell-like flowers, Rumbling in the wind, Stretching clappers to strike our ears . . . Full-lipped flowers Bitten by the sun Bleeding rain Dripping rain like golden honey— And the sweet earth flying from the thunder.

Strains of music spring up, crystallizing in the night air like rain turning suddenly to snow, drifting to earth.

Tears of joy, I can handle. Tears of sadness, I can handle. Tears of sorrows, I can handle. But, tears of nature, it’s the most beautiful feel that anyone can ever get. The feel you get while walking in the rain and the smell of mud as added essence, this beautiful feel is what they call love. Then, I’m in love. I call it “Tears of Love”.

...tears and rain are the same thing, they're meant to wash you clean and make you grow. If you don't let them out, you'll drown inside.

Tears are my joy to hide my pain; like thunder hides the sound of rain.

The black clouds and the white clouds, Black means rain White means no rain Today it was different, It rained despite of white clouds. And nobody got wet.

The darkness of the storm determines the brightness of the rainbow.

The fig tree had dropped its fruit all over the ground. Ripe figs lay in the dust, exploded, bloody, as if the sky had rained organs.

The future is only grim because people see it that way. It's unpredictable. Life is a summer storm of insecure thoughts. There's an umbrella of precautions to prevent insecurity, but it doesn't always keep the rain out of your face.

The first bout of warm spring rain caused normally respectable women to pull off their stockings and run through muddy puddles alongside their children.

The first drops of rain started to fall. 'God's policemen,' said Jester. 'You what?' 'The police always used to pray for rain before any big demonstration because people wouldn't turn up. Nobody wants to run riot in the streets if it's pouring with rain. Who's going to want to fight in this?

The Lord God give rain to the earth.