Quotes About Rain

Time falls on us, like rain, it falls like rain until we drown in it, and sometimes, it's like the drains overflow, and time just - pools up, it seeps, it gathers in the corners.

It has been raining here for ten years.I keep an accurate record of time and can state this with no fear of contradiction.

And the rain drops kept falling like the sweetest musicleaving tears on the glass, which is what music does to memost of the timebut silence too. and rain.

At night I dream that you and I are two plants that grew together, roots entwined, and that you know the earth and the rain like my mouth, since we are made of earth and rain.

If I were the rain. . . that binds together the Earth and the sky, whom in all eternity will never mingle. . . Would I be able to bind two hearts together?

I am sorry all the same, she said. And that it rained this afternoon. I could have wished that today would be perfect.

I fear the rain has stopped and it is time to squelch our way back through the grass to the house. If you were a gentleman, she said, you would carry me.

House-training, I must tell you, is a formality that can elude young dachshunds for some time; this is particularly true in climates that affront their sensibilities with outrageous meteorological insults. Rain, for example, or a startling gust of wind.

Later that summer, as rain fell, such a moment shimmered and paused on the brink, and then began the ancient dance of numbers: two, four, eight, sixteen, thirty-two, and a new life took root and began to grow. And thus the generations past were joined to the unknowable future.

And to tell the truth I don't want to let go of the wrists of idleness, I don't want to sell my life for money, I don't even want to come in out of the rain.

Today is a day like any other: twenty-four hours, a little sunshine, a little rain. Listen, says ambition, nervously shifting her weight from one boot to another—why don't you get going? For there I am, in the mossy shadows, under the trees. And to tell the truth I don't want to let go of the wrists of idleness, I don't want to sell my life for money, I don't even want to come in out of the rain.

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

Listen, says ambition, nervously shifting her weight from one boot to another — why don't you get going? For there I am, in the mossy shadows, under the trees. And to tell the truth I don't want to let go of the wrists of idleness, I don't want to sell my life for money, I don't even want to come in out of the rain.

Clear pebbles of the rain

When I have to die, I would like to die on a day of rain— long rain, slow rain, the kind you think will never end.

Give me that dark moment; I will carry it everywhere like a mouthful of rain. — Mary Oliver, from "Pen and Paper and a Breath of Air: Excerpts," Blue Pastures . (Mariner Books; 1 edition November 10, 1995)

Off they go, hundreds of them, like the black fingerprints of the rain.

Is the tree as it rises delighted with its many branches, each one like a poem? Are the clouds glad to unburden their bundles of rain? Most of the world says no, no, it's not possible. I refuse to think to such a conclusion. Too terrible it would be, to be wrong.

Anyway, this was my delicious walk in the rain. What was it actually about? Think about what it is that music is trying to say. It was something like that.

Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine. Meanwhile the world goes on. Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain are moving across the landscapes, over the prairies and the deep trees, the mountains and the rivers. Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air, are heading home again.

Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine. Meanwhile the world goes on. Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain are moving across the landscapes, over the prairies and the deep trees, the mountains and the rivers.

All afternoon it rained, then such power came down from the clouds on a yellow thread, as authoritative as God is supposed to be. When it hit the tree, her body opened forever.

With an anxiety that almost amounted to agony, I collected the instruments of life around me, that I might infuse a spark of being into the lifeless thing that lay at my feet. It was already one in the morning; the rain pattered dismally against the panes, and my candle was nearly out, when, by the glimmer of the half-extinguished light, I saw the dull yellow eye of the creature open; it breathed hard, and a convulsive motion agitated its limbs.

I lay wakeful, watching the empty dark, listening to the little wind which had sprung up throwing handfuls of rain against the walls of the tent