Best 1847 quotes in «rain quotes» category

All morning it has been raining. In the language of the garden, this is happiness.

Allow your hearts to be driven by principle, not bias. Love, not hate. Unity, not division. The fire of your dreams, not the rain of your sorrows.

All this waiting. Waiting for the rain to stop. Waiting in traffic. Waiting for the bill. Waiting at the airport for an old friend. Waiting to depart. Then, there’s the big waiting: waiting to grow up. Waiting for love. Waiting to show your your parents that when you have kids you’ll be different. Waiting to retire. Waiting for death. Why do we think waiting is the antithesis of life when it is almost all of it?

Along the pavement-colored hall doors stood half open on either side, all the way down; each one was numbered in bright bald tin, each one stood just so much ajar in the gas-lit corridor. Just enough to reveal half-dressed men and women waiting for the rain or about to make love or already through loving and about to get drunk; or already half drunk and beginning to argue about how soon it was going to rain or whose turn it was to run down for whisky or whether it was time to make love again or forget it for once and just wait for rain.

A lot of people tell me that I fascinate them because of my sensitivity. But I tell my friends and admirers that sensitivity is all around us. And it rained today evening. The rain reminds us of everything sensitive, tender, and sublime.

And I don't care what age you are, kissing in the rain is the best.

And sometimes you realize the value of the rain by knowing how unreliable and vanishing the rainbow is.

And then I realize: this isn’t dirty water falling from the sky. It is—literally—blood. I look up, and a droplet of blood splashes directly into my eye. I curse, rubbing my face, trying to get the blood out, but it’s everywhere, it’s like trying to dry off in the middle of the ocean. Shielding my face as best I can, I stare up into the sky. I am in the center of a cyclone. Giant white clouds swirl like a spiraling galaxy above me, the eye a tiny dark speck. The storm rages, throwing out bloody rain like punches, the wind so vicious it tears my clothes and cuts my skin. Representative Belles’s mind is swirling with dark thoughts—bloody thoughts—and they have created the biggest storm I have ever seen. I have to stop the cyclone. I have to get him into a peaceful reverie, something that he can hold on to while I root around his brain, looking for answers. I focus all of my concentration on stopping the bloody rain. The drops come slower and slower. I take a deep breath, imagining the clouds breaking up, spinning into fluffy bits of cotton-candy like clouds. I don’t open my eyes until the sounds of beating rain disappear and I can feel the warmth of the Mediterranean sun on my face.

And when the earth began to rumble and quake, as fear and frantic set in, he ran back inside the house past his wife and children, gathering all the valuables and things he thought of importance, and ran back to his car packing away. After making two trips in and out, he waited in the car for his family to come out, in fear they darted through the darkness and pelting cold rain. When everything calmed down, and the house was intact and safe, he returned putting everything back in its place, had the kids go to bed, told his wife he loves her and turned off the light.

A person looked at me and said "I can't believe you eat ice cream when it's cold out" "I replied oh that's nothing I drink water also when it rains

And in the background of Early's story was her voice. Her soul. Her sadness and longing. Because when it's raining, it's always Billie Holiday. p. 81

And the drops of rain. They are delicate, at first, their splashes graceful against pavement. Soon, though, the soft patter grows into a furious storm.

And the rain drops kept falling like the sweetest music leaving tears on the glass, which is what music does to me most of the time but silence too. and rain.

A poor old Widow in her weeds Sowed her garden with wild-flower seeds; Not too shallow, and not too deep, And down came April -- drip -- drip -- drip. Up shone May, like gold, and soon Green as an arbour grew leafy June. And now all summer she sits and sews Where willow herb, comfrey, bugloss blows, Teasle and pansy, meadowsweet, Campion, toadflax, and rough hawksbit; Brown bee orchis, and Peals of Bells; Clover, burnet, and thyme she smells; Like Oberon's meadows her garden is Drowsy from dawn to dusk with bees. Weeps she never, but sometimes sighs, And peeps at her garden with bright brown eyes; And all she has is all she needs -- A poor Old Widow in her weeds.

A rain like melting pillows… a rain so beautiful I could never have let go of if not certain that someday...it would find its way into my poem.

A raindrop strikes the lawn, sending up a tiny plume of dust. Others follow, a barrage of dusty explosions bursting all around me. The leaves of the banyan tree rebound from their impact. The parrots disappear from sight. In the distance, the clouds seem to reach down to touch the earth. And then a curtain of water falls quietly and shatters across the city with a terrifying roar, drenching me instantly. I hear the hot concrete of the driveway hissing, turning rain back into steam, and I smell the dead grass that lies under the dirt of the lawn. I fill my mouth with water, gritty at first, then pure and clean, and roll into a ball with my face pressed against my knees, sucking on a hailstone, shivering as wet cloth sticks to my body. Heavy drops beat their beat on my back and I rock slowly, my thoughts silenced by the violence of the storm, gasping in the sudden, unexpected cold.

a rainy walk through leaves will cure almost anything

A rain of feeling that we passed along the way, in the initial days. Do not easily forget what lies behind, but that moment you enter through that door and come to embrace me in the darkness, everything is made light, now for what we remember.

Are you telling me Kara Orris is afraid of rain?” Hunter’s grin twisted into a smirk as his eyes lit up, relishing his new discovery with absolute delight. “Why, that’s adorable!

As an angler and a gardener, I cherish each drop of rain that falls.

A person should always be willing to adjust for a rainy day. That was a good attitude in all of life, but was a reality to the way of life for those residing in Florida.

As a youth, I listened to the rain from the bowers of pleasure houses, Red silk drapes translucent in the glow of candlelight. In my prime, I listened to the rain as a traveler, The sky low, the river broad, the calls of the wild geese harsh and cold. Now, grey at the temples, I listen to the rain beneath the eaves of an abandoned cloister. Has mine been a futile life? I have no answers, only the sound of raindrops upon worn stone steps, And long hours yet to pass before the light of dawn.

A sense of hopelessness had invaded his bones, as chill and as inescapable as the rain.

As sure as the driven rain, the sun will shine again!

A sudden rain: reminding me once again that I'm not in control.

At any rate I'd better be getting out of the wood, for really its coming on very dark. Do you think it's going to rain?' Tweedledum spread a large umbrella over himself and his brother, and looked up into it. 'No, I don't think it is,' he said: 'at least - not under here. Nohow.' 'But it may rain outside?' 'It may - if it chooses,' said Tweedledee: 'we've got no objection. Contrariwise.

At last it was raining. Water was streaming through gaps in the window frames and trickling into our laps. “Smell it! Smell it! God, how wonderful! How beautiful!” we shouted over and over.

Autumn is grey rainy afternoons, and fond memories of raking up leaves into tidy neat piles, just to jump in a spread them around again.

... back then the sky seemed so vast. And now the sky above me... is low, and narrow, and heavy.

because some things sometimes aren't ours to hold, but just beautiful to listen to.

Before falling to the ground, the rain has touched the sky. (Avant de tomber au sol, La pluie a touché le ciel)

Before the downpour, Al had thought Lou looked alluring in her pale pink T-shirt and simple flowered skirt. Her soft brown waves bounced around her shoulders with the humidity. She was simply beautiful. But with the addition of water, she evolved into a siren. Her thin cotton clothes clung to every curve. She slicked her hair away from her face, as if emerging from an enchanted lake.

Behjet eased the horse forward again. "The harvest is failing. There will be no crop at all if this rain doesn't stop - not even hay." The rain. The rain she'd been so grateful for, the rain that concealed the warping of her shadow. It was going to kill people.

Being all alone is like the feeling you get when you stand at the mouth of a large river on a rainy evening and watch the water flow into the sea. Have you ever done that? Stand at the mouth of a large river and watch the water flow into the sea?

Be the Rain. I am the rain. The mountain may spit fire at the sky. . . Still the rain will fall. The mountain may quake at the world. . . Still the rain will fall. The mountain will be silent and brooding. . . Still the rain will fall. The mountain will tumble down upon the earth. . . Still the rain will fall. The mountain will be reduced to sandy shore. . . Still the rain will fall. Be the rain. by D. Denise Dianaty © 11 January 2014

Breathe deep... The rain falls but a moment, and in a moment, gives life to another day.

Brushing the clouds away from my eyes, I see clarity in the raindrop and beauty in the first ray of morning sun... Life is strange and wondrous...

But that's the thing, how you feel about the place that's home. About its sky, its air, its smell, the color of the light, the way the rain falls (or doesn't), whether it hot or cold.

Before the war, she'd never have gone out in the rain and happily stood in it. Now, it was a reminder that she was alive...

By the sandy water I breathe in the odor of the sea, From there the wind comes and blows over the world, By the sandy water I breathe in the odor of the sea, From there the clouds come and rain falls over the world.

But here, the rain was just another part of the landscape. Like it was the thing that lived here and we were merely visitors.

Clear skies do not promise rain.

Colors shone with exceptional clarity in the rain. The ground was a deep black, the pine branches a brilliant green, the people wrapped in yellow looking like special spirits that were allowed to wander over the earth on rainy mornings only.

Complains are like the clouds that give no rain no matter how thick they gather.

Cry and let your tears flow for a brighter tomorrow... Rain falls because the clouds can no longer take its heaviness... Just like our Tears... it falls because the heart can no longer take the pain...

Clouds shed the agony of the sky and rain concludes it by covering us in filth. What do you think about the puddles of mud and traffic jams? I so hate rain.

Call me crazy, but there is something terribly wrong with this city.

Crying in the rain. No one sees your tears and your pain gets washed away.

Cursed are those, whose soul bleeds every time they walk in the rain.

Does it get any better than sleeping next to you on a cold rainy night? Watching myself in your eyes and the way I shine in there. Hearing the drizzle and getting weaker every time the breeze touches our bare skin. Every time you smile, these little butterflies with their wings on fire, flies inside my heart and I constantly fail to cage these feelings in mere words. All I need at that moment is you inside my arms. And to stay a prisoner inside your eyes, for an eternity.