Best 1847 quotes in «rain quotes» category

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.

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 dont show in rain but you feel them

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 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 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 darkness of the storm determines the brightness of the rainbow.

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

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

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 mist after rain, uninterrupted rainfall on rooftops, pitter-patter intellect. The thoughts I leave behind like footsteps.

The Lord God give rain to the earth.

The Lord sends rain due season.

The monsoons were the real thing; they dissolved things to the bone.

The moon seems unaware of night's dark hitting on the damp warm rain misguiding owl's spitting A thunder light of love raising hearts beating while weather learns more from rain lovers meeting

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 missions were always changing- sometimes collecting jars of rain, paper bags of hiccups, adopting lost moonbeams and folding them into cake batter. Or perhaps investigating glittering slug trails left in the moonlight, finding the owners of abandoned buttons, or playing the sousaphone for caterpillars still in their cocoons.

The philosophy of the rain is very simple: No obstacle is obstacle when you are strongly determined!

The rain always makes me wonder What is it that the clouds ponder? Will I write something tonight? But I don't want to miss the thunder!

THE POUNDING RAIN HAD STOPPED as suddenly as it had begun. Sheets of silver green neon clung hungrily to the moist black asphalt like some reptilian skin.

The rain always reminds me of our kisses.

The rain still drummed on the roof, like fine needles striking the shingles. The family sat silently around the table, each one wrapped in their own thoughts. It was Matthew’s voice that broke the silence, asking, “And what happened after that?” “After that,” said Paul, “came Gettysburg.

The rain always reminds me of your sublimity...

The rain continued. It was a hard rain, a perpetual rain, a sweating and steaming rain; it was a mizzle, a downpour, a fountain, a whipping at the eyes, an undertow at the ankles; it was a rain to drown all rains and the memory of rains.

The raindrops tapped your windows like my lips tapped your back.

The rain is, in a sense, The sole sad friend of those who find themselves Thinking, wide awake, until the dawn, Who, in bed, alone, with fevered hands, Listen to it, soothed. They like the company Of its faint moan across the sleeping plain, Its rustling in the garden all night long. - On the Great Grey Road (Sur ce Grand Chemin Gris...)

The rain landed on my skin with a barely audible patter and changed the tempo of its repetitive dance, letting the wind change its course and angle. The cold soon seeped through my dress and into my bones. An iris from my garland fell in my lap.

The rain turns lighter, turns to snow. And I have a sense that we have not yet arrived, that we are still reaching. For each other. For who we are meant to be.

There are a hundred things she has tried to chase away the things she won't remember and that she can't even let herself think about because that's when the birds scream and the worms crawl and somewhere in her mind it's always raining a slow and endless drizzle. You will hear that she has left the country, that there was a gift she wanted you to have, but it is lost before it reaches you. Late one night the telephone will sign, and a voice that might be hers will say something that you cannot interpret before the connection crackles and is broken. Several years later, from a taxi, you will see someone in a doorway who looks like her, but she will be gone by the time you persuade the driver to stop. You will never see her again. Whenever it rains you will think of her.

The pools had been written onto the fields by the rain. The pools were a magic worked by the rain, just as the tumbling of the black birds against the grey was a spell that the sky was working and the motion of grey-brown grasses was a spell that the wind made. Everything had meaning.

The rain began to fall harder, and it distracted him, but he tried to pull himself back because he felt on the verge of understanding something large and important. It seemed to him that this moment—the light and wind, the sweep of fields, the falling rain, the lowing cows, Leah’s form as it twisted to one side and then another—captured a sort of life that he longed for, a life of order and harsh beauty, and although this was his farm and his vision, it did not seem to be his life. It seemed instead to be the thing for which he must daily give up his life, an act of submission to something he could not name and only rarely, in moments such as these, have a sense of. Life during these moments seemed neither lost nor ruined but a power to be shared, as the grass shares its power with the living things that devour it.

The rain fell like dead bullets.

The rain reminds us of everything sensitive, tender, and sublime!

The rain begins with a single drop

The rain reminds him that one travels to sacred places in order to awaken that which lies sleeping within. He journeys on this path not to escape the world, but to enter it more deeply. Sometimes that is the only way we can open the doors to our own hearts, to realize that the whole of the earth lives inside the human heart.

The rains and constant drizzle had cleansed and polished the foliage everywhere, lending the greenery a rich, youthful charm. The beads of water on the leaves, gave them an alluring sheen and added to their rejuvenating effect.

The rain thundered down so heavily that Pritam could imagine that space itself was made of water and was pouring through rents in the sky's tired fabric.

The real rain dance is when the rain dances.

The rain always reminds me of our kisses: soft, tender, and sublime!

There is a flaw to your plan.” A sly grin crept onto his face once again. My eyebrow arched at him questioningly. “I live across the street,” he told me; and, without another word, he turned around toward his house and I realized what he meant. I told my problems to a stranger that I would probably see again.

There is a stillness between us, a period of restlessness that ties my stomach in a hangman’s noose. It is this same lack in noise that lives, there! in the darkness of the grave, how it frightens me beyond all things.

There is a way of walking through rain without getting hit by a single drop - you just have to find what it is.

There is no love story more beautiful than that between wind and rain.