I don’t consider myself a pessimist. I think of a pessimist as someone who is waiting for it to rain. And I feel soaked to the skin.
No person has the right to rain on your dreams.
The three great elemental sounds in nature are the sound of rain, the sound of wind in a primeval wood, and the sound of outer ocean on a beach.
You can hide beneath the covers and study your pain, make crosses from your lovers, throw roses in the rain. Waste your summer praying in vain, for a savior to rise from these streets.
Cautiously, I allowed myself to feel good at times. I found moments of peace in cheap rooms just staring at the knobs of some dresser or listening to the rain in the dark. The less I needed the better I felt.
It was night, and the rain fell; and falling, it was rain, but, having fallen, it was blood.
The rain will stop, the night will end, the hurt will fade. Hope is never so lost that it can’t be found.
“And you’ll always love me, won’t you?” “Yes.” “And the rain won’t make any difference?” “No.”
Never duck responsibility. It’s like running from the rain only to fall into the river.
There will be a rain dance Friday night, weather permitting!
And when it rains on your parade, look up rather than down. Without the rain, there would be no rainbow.
Exhaustion pays no mind to age or beauty. Like rain and earthquakes and hail and floods.
Thanks to the long days of rain, the blades of grass glowed with a deep-green luster, and they gave off the smell of wildness unique to things that sink their roots into the earth.
There may be a time when we’ll attend Weather Theatres to recall the sensation of rain.