Quotes About Weather

violent weather outside put me in a pensive, reflective

November came roaring in with gusty winds and more wet weather. Mandy's depression would not go away. Her garden seemed sad, too. It was virtually empty now, and the few brave flowers that remained there were flattened by rain, their yellows stalks sprawling in all directions. Most of the trees were bare, and the woods had a wet carpet of leaves.

Maybe the weight of human choices gets too much beyond a few seconds, the way you can't predict the weather too far in advance because there are too many things going on.", FADE by Kailin Gow

There is a lot to do in Cleveland. It's just those December, January, February months that are tough. But there is a lot to do there.

July 1788, a series of catastrophic weather events had sent hail storms across the plains of Beauce, the grain elevator of France at the time.

Many of our discussions took place as we walked up and down the streets, sat on benches or stood in doorways taking shelter from the rain.

dispatcher, Alfredo Suarez, had to check the weather.

In golden April weather, In sun and wind and rain, Let us fare forth and follow Beneath the spring's first swallow By budding break and heather To the good brown soil again!

A late Easter, a long cold spring.

Raoden turned to regard the large Dula. "What does it matter? It's not like we have anything pressing to do. It's actually quite pleasant up here—you should just sit back and enjoy it." An ominous crash came from the clouds above them, and Raoden felt a wet drop splat against his head. "Fantastic," Galladon grumbled. "I'm enjoying myself already.

E soprattutto, dentro tutto quanto, attorno a tutto quanto, c'era la nebbia. Era più costante del sole, poiché non poteva essere nascosta dalle nuvole. Era più potente delle tempeste, poiché poteva durare più della furia delle intemperie. Era sempre lì. Mutevole ma eterna

Like a highstorm, regular in their coming, yet always unexpected.

The cold grips us like handcuffs and the heat is the liberating key.

These apples have hung in the wind and frost and rain till they have absorbed the qualities of the weather or season, and thus are highly seasoned, and they pierce and sting and permeate us with their spirit.

I am a parcel of vain strivings tied By a chance bond together, Dangling this way and that, their links Were made so loose and wide, Methinks, For milder weather.

If I wished to see a mountain or other scenery under the most favorable auspices, I would go to it in foul weather, so as to be there when it cleared up; we are then in the most suitable mood, and nature is most fresh and inspiring. There is no serenity so fair as that which is just established in a tearful eye.

It was grey windless weather, and the bell of the little old church that nestled in the hollow of the Sussex down sounded near and domestic. We were a straggling procession in the mild damp air - which, as always at that season, gave one the feeling that after the trees were bare there was more of it, a larger sky... (Sir Edmund Orme)

The weather had just become perfect; it was one of the dozen exquisite days of the English year — days stamped with a purity unknown in climates where fine weather is cheap.

Boris has just given me a summary of his views. He is a weather prophet. The weather will continue bad, he says. There will be more calamities, more death, more despair. Not the slightest indication of a change anywhere. The cancer of time is eating us away. Our heroes have killed themselves, or are killing themselves. The hero, then, is not Time, but Timelessness. We must get in step, a lock step, toward the prison of death. There is no escape. The weather will not change.

There will be more calamities, more death, more despair. Not the slightest indication of a change anywhere. The cancer of time is eating us away. Our heroes have killed themselves, or are killing themselves. The hero, then, is not Time, but Timelessness. We must get in step, a lock step, toward the prison of death. There is no escape. The weather will not change.

The cancer of time is eating us away. Our heroes have killed themselves, or are killing themselves. The hero, then, is not Time, but Timelessness. We must get in step, a lock step, toward the prison of death. There is no escape. The weather will not change.

The sooner the gardener loses certain kinds of innocence the better, and there is no better place to begin than with the weather.

Australia is so cool that it's hard to even know where to start describing it. The beaches are beautiful; so is the weather. Not too crowded. Great food, great music, really nice people. It must be a lot like Los Angeles was many years ago.

I grew up in Texas, but that was 20 years ago. Last year, in Fort Worth, they had hail the size of softballs. We're seeing more and more powerful storms, of all types, almost on a biblical level.