At five-thirty the rain began to fall in great, heavy drops which bounced off the pavement before they spread out into black spots. At the same time thunder rumbled from the direction of Charenton and an eddy of wind lifted the dust, carried away the hats of passers-by who took to their heels and who, after a few confused moments, were all in the shelter of doorways or under the awnings of cafe terraces.
Street pedlars of the Faubourg Saint-Antoine scurried about with an apron or a sack over their heads, pushing their carts as they tried to run. Rivulets already began to flow along the two sides of the street, the gutters sang, and on every floor you could see people hurriedly closing their windows.
Cuddle up. Rain always stops. It always stops. It always does. -The Brown Cape
Ellen GilchristTag: rain weather mississippi-authors
We were running all over the front lawn and under the rainspouts, barefooted, in our underpants, with the rain pelting down, straight cold gray rain of Delta summers, wonderful rain. -Mexico
Ellen GilchristTag: rain weather mississippi-authors
When I was young, I thought it is thunder that kills people. But when I learnt physics in the high school, I discovered that it is rather the lightning that does the killing. The voice of the thunder itself is just a noise. The lightning is the poise!
Israelmore AyivorTag: school purpose people peace rain college light physics killing harmony kill roar empty food-for-thought lightning poise voice young thunder discover shout cool-down israelmore-ayivor roaring discovered barrels empty-barrels kills lighten lightening noice
What the mud had been doing with itself, or where it came from, who could say? But it seemed to collect in a moment, as a crowd will, and in five minutes to have splashed all the sons and daughters of Adam.
Charles DickensRainy days should be spent at home with a cup of tea and a good book.
Bill WattersonTag: reading books rain tea comfort
A poor old Widow in her weeds
Sowed her garden with wild-flower seeds;
Not too shallow, and not too deep,
And down came April -- drip -- drip -- drip.
Up shone May, like gold, and soon
Green as an arbour grew leafy June.
And now all summer she sits and sews
Where willow herb, comfrey, bugloss blows,
Teasle and pansy, meadowsweet,
Campion, toadflax, and rough hawksbit;
Brown bee orchis, and Peals of Bells;
Clover, burnet, and thyme she smells;
Like Oberon's meadows her garden is
Drowsy from dawn to dusk with bees.
Weeps she never, but sometimes sighs,
And peeps at her garden with bright brown eyes;
And all she has is all she needs --
A poor Old Widow in her weeds.
Tag: seeds rain sun gardening spring grief summer garden bees widow wild-flowers
And the rain drops kept falling like the sweetest music
leaving tears on the glass,
which is what music does to me
most of the time
but silence too. and rain.
Tag: music time silence rain windows morning tears sad sound
Gray.
The overcast skies had the colour of deadened stones, and seemed closer than usually, as though they were phlegmatically observing my every movement with their apathetic emptily blue-less eyes; each tiny drop of hazy rain drifting around resembled transparent molten steel, the pavement looked like it was about to burst into disconsolate tears, even the air itself was gray, so ultimate and ubiquitous that colour was everywhere around me.
Gray...
Tag: love romantic romance rain death apathy weeping dark water darkness dead colors crying tears raining mystery suspense color eyes movement gothic young-adult rock steel mysterious colours weep stone cry drop clouds blue move eye air cloud observe close metal colour slow iron itself stones grey grim tear downpour ultimate goth gray everywhere slowly cloudy haze overcast closer inconsolable apathetic blue-less colourless deaden disconsolate hazy phlegmatic rainy ubiquitous
My people? Who are they?
I went into the church where the congregation
Worshiped my God. Were they my people?
I felt no kinship to them as they knelt there.
My people! Where are they?
I went into the land where I was born,
Where men spoke my language.
I was a stranger there.
“My people,” my soul cried. “Who are my people?”
Last night in the rain I met an old man
Who spoke a language I do not speak,
Which marked him as one who does not know my God.
With apologetic smile he offered me
The shelter of his patched umbrella.
I met his eyes...And then I knew...
Tag: inspirational rain language umbrella my-god land-where-i-was-born my-people rosa-zagnoni-marinoni
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