Quotes About Rain

It's said that the shuffling of the cards is the earth, and the pattering of the cards is the rain, and the beating of the cards is the wind, and the pointing of the cards is the fire. That's of the four suits. But the Greater Trumps, it's said, are the meaning of all process and the measure of the everlasting dance.

What we are given in dreams we write as blue paint, Or messages to the clouds. At evening we wait for the rain to fall and the sky to clear. Our words are words for the clay, uttered in undertones, Our gestures salve for the wind. We sit out on the earth and stretch our limbs, Hoarding the little mounds of sorrow laid up in our hearts. —Charles Wright, closing lines to "Homage to Paul Cézanne," The Southern Cross: Poems (Random House, 1981)

I like to walk in rain, so that nobody can see my tears.

I walk in the Rain, so people won't see my tears.

I always like walking in the rain, so no one can see me crying.

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?

About the water, because it all came back to the water, didn't it? It tied it all together: the sanitarium, the rain, the plumbing. The bathtub and a baby,

Water fell from the sky and dripped from the branches, streaming down the gully of the trail. I walked beneath the enormous trees, the forest canopy high above me, the bushes and low-growing plants that edged the trail soaking me as I brushed past. Wet and miserable as it was, the forest was magical—Gothic in its green grandiosity, both luminous and dark, so lavish in its fecundity that it looked surreal, as if I were walking through a fairy tale rather than the actual world.

October 31st dawned damp and cold, but by nine in the morning the misty rain had dissipated, and blue sky broke through. By eleven the sun had dried the leaves to crisp colors, and the world smelled of apples and burning wood smoke and candles and pumpkin innards.

Sunday morning. The air was muggy and oppressive, bloated with the potential for rain. It was the kind of day that invited inactivity and foreboding thoughts.

Developed countries depend very little on rain, as this dependence creates high fluctuations in the output, year after year. Apart

Our past is like a footprint. It only confirms we were there. No burden on our future does it bear. Bring the rain, clear the pane of clutter.

Forget that second-ticking clock. Time is the seed Waiting to fly from the milkweed pod. Time is the speed Of a dragonfly. Time is the weight of the ripened nut Eager to fall. Time is the rabbit's desperate scut. Time's dimensions are hidden in rocks, In wind and rain, but never in clocks.

If it's Wednesday but it's not raining, does that make it Dry Hump Day?

And the small ripple spilt upon the beach Scarcely o'erpass'd the cream of your champagne, When o'er the brim the sparkling bumpers reach, That spring-dew of the spirit! the heart's rain! Few things surpass old wine; and they may preach Who please,—the more because they preach in vain,— Let us have wine and women, mirth and laughter, Sermons and soda-water the day after.

Are the days of winter sunshine just as sad for you, too? When it is misty, in the evenings, and I am out walking by myself, it seems to me that the rain is falling through my heart and causing it to crumble into ruins.

May all the blessings of heaven rain down upon you and yours.

God made rainy days so gardeners could get the housework done.

Two lovers in the rain have no need of an umbrella.

I go where I love and where I am loved, into the snow; I go to the things I love with no thought of duty or pity; I go where I belong, inexorably, as the rain that has lain long from "The Flowering of the Rod [2]

I follow the scent of falling rain And head for the place where it is darkest I follow the lightning And draw near to the place where it strikes —NAVAJO CHANT

Forgetfulness is like a song That, freed from beat and measure, wanders. Forgetfulness is like a bird whose wings are reconciled, Outspread and motionless, -- A bird that coasts the wind unwearyingly. Forgetfulness is rain at night, Or an old house in a forest, -- or a child. Forgetfulness is white, -- white as a blasted tree, And it may stun the sybil into prophecy, Or bury the Gods. I can remember much forgetfulness.

Atmospheres of light shine in your eyes and so my dear sun, I hear your cries as you melt the rain from our delicate skies with a love so great there can be no goodbyes.

The way that I miss you is like heavy rain drenching every inch of my body, and when I am dry again and forget you I miss missing you, until tears fill my eyes and I blink too fast to remember you until your face flashes before my eyes.