Best 440 quotes in «weather quotes» category

The economy of your country shall never determine the size of your three square meals if you know you can rise against and above all limitations! The climatic emergencies in the weather shall never determine your survival rates if you know you are above their standards!

The English winter is long, cold and wet, just like the English summer

The Farmer’s Almanac promised a cold winter. The coldest in decades. Andrew grinned, unaware of how hideously ugly it made him. Let the winter be record breaking. The year would be marked in infamy and not for the weather alone. He could imagine the headlines, mentioning it as the winter of death, as his spree was just beginning. It would put the town on the map.

The idea that they were going to have to-eventually-go someplace that was even hotter than this was now was worrying Harrier, but there wasn't much he could do about it at the moment. He couldn't imagine why anybody would want to live here if they had a choice. Sometimes, he thought, people were idiots.

The madcap English weather which had been putting on a passable imitation of June now decided to play March.

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 most important thing that most people get from the news is the prediction of the following day’s weather, which most people are usually able to predict correctly by themselves.

The most extreme weather I have experienced was on top of high altitude mountain summits at astronomical observatories.

The most dangerous weather condition that I experienced at high altitude was walking out of the observatory to check on astronomers in another building during a snow blizzard. When I was returning to the observatory the conditions progressed to white out, stranding me in a nighttime snow field. I was only able to return to the safety of the observatory by following my footprints in the snow with the flashlight.

The next morning was grey and much more typical of early autumn. All I wanted to do was cocoon myself in layers of sweaters and stay in my room.

Then, just at the peak of complacency, when it was assumed that the climate of the world had changed forever, when the conductor of the philharmonic played Vivaldi’s Four Seasons and left out an entire movement, and when to children of a young age stories of winter were told as if they were fairy tales, New York was hit by a cataclysmic freeze, and, once again, people huddled together to talk fearfully of the millennium.

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 November evening had a bite; it nibbled not-quite-gently at her cheeks and ears. In Virginia the late autumn was a lover, still, but a dangerous one.

The real character of leaders does not show in fair weathers. When the sun of life begins to go hot, you will see for yourself some leaders are already melting off!

The real weather is not the weather outside but the weather inside your mind!

There is no such thing as bad weather, only bad clothes.

There is nothing called 'bad or rough weather'! It is just 'weather'. The cyclone, earthquake, rainfall etc. are normal processes of nature. Ironically, if they occur, we call them 'bad'!

There’s a passage in John Steinbeck’s “East of Eden” that does a pretty good job describing California’s rainfall patterns: The water came in a 30-year cycle. There would be five to six wet and wonderful years when there might be 19 to 25 inches of rain, and the land would shout with grass. Then would come six or seven pretty good years of 12 to 16 inches of rain. And then the dry years would come ...

There, on the far side of of the Atlantic, would be Maine, but despite the shared ocean, her island and this one were worlds apart. Where Inishmaan was gray and brown, its fragile man-made soil supporting only the hardiest of low-growing plants, the fertile Quinnipeague invited tall pines in droves, not to mention vegetables, flowers, and improbable, irrepressible herbs. Lifting her head, eyes closed now, she breathed in the damp Irish air and the bit of wood smoke that drifted on the cold ocean wind. Quinnipeague smelled of wood smoke, too, since early mornings there could be chilly, even in summer. But the wood smoke would clear by noon, giving way to the smell of lavender, balsam, and grass. If the winds were from the west, there would be fry smells from the Chowder House; if from the south, the earthiness of the clam flats; if from the northeast, the purity of sweet salt air.

There's no question winter here can take a chunk out of you. Not like the extreme cold of the upper Midwest or the round-the-clock darkness of Alaska might, but rather the opposite. Here, it's a general lack of severity - monotonous flat gray skies and the constant drip-drip of misty rain - that erodes the spirit.

The streets are empty and quiet this early in the morning and I can hear my own footsteps as they fall. I can never forget the imperfections in these brick sidewalks, where they rise and dip around tree roots, where loose segments can make you stumble and fall. Mom is right, the morning is cooler than I expected, but I am committed to the cold air sting that will soon turn to an unbearably soggy heat. Such is the way of a city built on a swamp.

There's something mystical in the air and in my heart. The weather is showing my emotions.

The sky is grey, with a thin TV-static drizzle that hangs in the air like it's been freeze-framed.

The sky's gray and there's mizzle. It's so soft on my skin--it's nothing like rain. It's even softer than the lightest drizzle! Lift my face up, so it can kiss my skin." The Panopticon

The smog curled between the streetlamps and the spokes of the wrought iron framework. It seemed through your body and into your bones.

The sun rises with a surprising intensity, a sign that June Gloom has cleared the runway and July is on approach. We are both tired, and it would've been to return to our bed after our morning walk, read from a book maybe, drift lazily in and out of sleep. But the sun beckons with a blazingly confrontational message: There is darkness, but there is also light. To stay in bed would be to embrace the darkness, the seizures, the octopus. To go outside is to embrace the light.

There was an ocean above us, held in by a thin sac that might rupture and let down a flood at any second.

There were, in Feo's experience, five kinds of cold. There was wind cold, which Feo barely felt. It was fussy and loud and turned your cheeks as red as if you'd been slapped, but couldn't kill you even if it tried. There was snow cold, which plucked at your arms and chapped your lips, but brought real rewards. It was Feo's favorite weather: The snow was soft and good for making snow wolves. There was ice cold, which might take the skin off your palm if you let it, but probably wouldn't if you were careful. Ice cold smelled sharp and knowing. It often came with blue skies and was good for skating. Feo had respect for ice cold. Then there was hard cold, which was when the ice cold got deeper and deeper until at the end of a month you couldn't remember if the summer had ever really existed. Hard cold could be cruel. Birds died in midflight. It was the kind of cold that you booted and kicked your way through. And then there was blind cold. Blind cold smelled of metal and granite. It took all the sense out of your brain and blew the snow into your eyes until they were glued shut and you had to rub spit into them before they would blink. Blind cold was forty degrees below zero. This was the kind of cold that you didn't sit down to think in, unless you wanted to be found dead in the same place in May or June. Feo had felt blind cold only once.

The road lay long and black ahead of them and the heat was coming now through the thin soles of their shoes. There were young beans pushing up from the dry brown fields, tiny rows of green sprigs that stretched away in the distance.

The scent of rain on a sultry spring evening is always an indulgence.

The sky of the color of ashes in the east and embers in the west.

The trouble with the English was that they were English: damn cold fish! - Living underwater most of the year, in days the colour of night!

The very sight of a daffodil still makes me shiver, because spring in the north of England is always so bitter.

The winter seemed reluctant to let go its bite. It hung on cold and wet and windy long after its time. And people repeated, "It's those damned big guns they're shooting off in France-- spoiling the weather in the whole world.

THE WEATHER OF LOVE Love Has a way of wilting Or blossoming At the strangest, Most unpredictable hour. This is how love is, An uncontrollable beast In the form of a flower. The sun does not always shine on it. Nor does the rain always pour on it Nor should it always get beaten by a storm. Love does not always emit the sweetest scents, And sometimes it can sting with its thorns. Water it. Give it plenty of sunlight. Nurture it, And the flower of love will Outlive you. Neglect it or keep dissecting it, And its petals will quickly curl up and die. This is how love is, Perfection is a delusional vision. So love the person who loves you Unconditionally, And abandon the one Who only loves you Under favorable Conditions.

The weather gods are toying with us." - Dr. James Stagg

The weather was bitter and stormy, people's looks seemed brutal, the cars were ruthlessly driven, the buildings looked unfriendly. Her fire started to freeze by the coldness of being unwelcome and undesired on a foreign wicked land. Indeed, feelings involve one in their worlds, they make one forget one's existence; they distract one from being utterly connected with the surroundings. That was what happened, there was danger; Norina's survival was threatened. In a logical moment that could penetrate the whirlwind she had inside, she got struck by reality, her real situation; she had no money, no food, no accommodation, and no shelter. She suddenly stopped walking and shut her eyes for a whole minute as if she was installing a blank page and a brand new sense detector that could suit the new city. It wasn't easy and nothing was easy, especially controlling your own inner world. However, when it is a must, considering the level of difficulty would be trivial.

The weather wouldn't settle down. It would rain cats and dogs, then stop, then drip awhile, then stop while it made up its mind what to do next.

The wizards were good at wind, weather being a matter not of force but of lepidoptery. As Archchancellor Ridcully said, you just had to know where the damn butterflies were.

They know no urge of seasons; they feel no kiss of sun, no lash of wind and weather. They live forever by not living at all.

They talk about big skies in the western United States, and they may indeed have them, but you have never seen such lofty clouds, such towering anvils, as in Iowa in July.

To storm, a mind, it must be balanced, by what can't be it must be challenged...

This world was made to be cloaked in gray. It wouldn’t feel natural if the sun shone brightly all the time.

Tornadoes are so unpredictable that you never know what's going to happen. From the distance they are an amazing piece of nature. Up close they are deadly.

Unlike in the movies, the weather seemed indifferent to his personal predicament and refused dramatic contribution. It was a rather pleasant day, in fact.

(Wallace) Stevens turns to the idea of the weather precisely as the religious idea turns to the idea of God.

(Wallace) Stevens turns to the idea of the weather precisely as the religious man turns to the idea of God.

Washington, D.C. is so confusing in the spring. The days grow increasingly hot and humid, but the nights hold on to winter for as long as possible. On some days the grass is still frosted over in the mornings, stiff and crunchy, even if it wilts before the first class starts. If you are not careful you get caught in the weather's nostalgia and at night, a windbreaker or a sweater isn't enough.

Weather is always unrehearsed.

Weather is cyclical. It’s falling and then rising. It’s movement. Swaying, drifting, and swirling. It’s power. Gravity, evaporation, and erosion. It’s a potpourri of human emotion. Happiness, sadness, elation, and disappointment.