Quotes About Rain

He'd never seen a rain quite like this so gentle that it seemed barely to fall yet slowly laid its shine on the bay leaves and hydrangea flowers…

Taylor: what do you hear? Daisy: Nothing but rain

And here in Britain the wind moaned through the desolate woods, the skies wept, and wet gale-blown leaves pattered against the windows and stuck there, making little pathetic shadows against the steamy glass. There had been wild weather often enough in his own country, but that had been the wild weather of home; here was the wind and and rain and wet leaves of exile.

Rain it did, and that night in the atrium of the old farmhouse, they could here it hushing and pattering on the roof and among the broad leaves of the fig-tree outside; and the little breath of air from the open door that scarcely stirred the flame of the lamp on the table bore with it that most wonderful of all smells, the throat-catching heart-catching scent of rain on a hot and thirsty earth.

The rain was steady and unrelenting and, like all steady and unrelenting things, boring.

I love walking in the rain because no one can see me crying

Back to the Army again, sergeant,Back to the Army again.Out o' the cold an' the rain.

...smiles come best from those who weep. Lightning, then the rain-laughter.

The rain swirls over the trees and roofs of the town, and the parched earth soaks it up, exuding a fragrance that comes only once in a year, the fragrance of quenched earth, the most exhilarating of all smells.

Rain?. It washes the leaves, Gives new life to grass, Draws out the scent of the earth

And the earth itself. It smells differently in different places. But its loveliest fragrance is known only when it receives a shower of rain. And then the scent of wet earth rises as though it were giving something beautiful back to the clouds—a blend of all the fragrant things that grow in it.

And the earth itself. It smells different in different places. But its loveliest fragrance is known only when it receives a shower of rain. and then the scent of the wet earth rises as though it would give something beautiful back to the clouds. A blend of all the fragrant things that grow upon it.

When I awoke on the verandah I saw a grey morning, smelt the rain on the red earth, and remembered that I had to go away.

On the spur of the hill stood the ruins of an old brewery. The roof had long since disappeared and the rain had beaten the stone floors smooth and yellow. Some enterprising Englishman had spent a lifetime here making beer for his thirsty compatriots down in the plains. Now, moss and ferns grew from the walls.

There has been no storm, no thunder just the steady swish of tropical downpour. It helps one to lie awake; at the same time; it doesn't keep one from sleeping. It Is a good sound to read by - the rain outside, the quiet within - and there is a general feeling of being untouched by, and yet in touch with, the rain.

British rain was rarely that simple. For days on end, instead of falling, it simply hung around in the air like a wife waiting for you to notice she was sulking.

Taste and smell of rain and beyond the veil, your voice, its trembling overtones without body or remorse; these hours that keep me as an ornament.

I'm tired of living here in this hotel, snow and rain falling through the sheets. In fact, I'm tired of 23rd Street, strung out like some Christmas lights out there in the Chelsea night

He walks slowly along beneath the dripping pine trees, staring straight ahead of him, like someone who has no idea where he is going, and his red bag is the only spot of bright colour in the driving rain.

The earth, saith the poet, doth often long after the rain. So is the glorious sky often as desirous to fall upon the earth, which argues a mutual kind of love between them.

I lie flat, the damp air above me like a lid. Like earth. I wish it would rain. Better still, a thunderstorm, black clouds, lightning, ear-splitting sound.

The freezing rain sifts down, handfuls of shining rice thrown by some unseen celebrant. Wherever it hits, it crystallizes into a granulated coating of ice.

When it was raining we would sit at this table and draw in our scrapbooks with crayons or colored pencils, anything we liked. In school you had to do what the rest were doing.

My firm resolve was to escape my wicked cousin and my English captors. But the wind was howling, and rain was coming down in sheets. And even as I relaxed in a hot bath in my snug apartments, the clamor of the storm outside was counseling me to be patient and wait. A wise woman never does anything in a hurry.