Henry Ward Beecher Quotes

I'm a big follower and reactor to weather.

I've always been fascinated by weather.

I'm attempting to broaden my novels' scope through landscape and weather, leaves falling off trees, overnight storms, timeless elements which, irrespective of human endeavour, have always been there and, as long as there is life and snow, will always be there.

In Iceland, the weather is the biggest character you deal with every day. There's nothing more relevant in your life than what kind of weather it is.

Lightning is something which, again, we would rather avoid.

We may achieve climate, but weather is thrust upon us.

Let the rain kiss you. Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops. Let the rain sing you a lullaby.

I like rain, actually.

The climate informs the character.

Among all of our uncertainties weather is the most basic. We can’t live without it and we can’t control it.

I am never up for rain sequences because nothing can beat the excitement and thrill of natural rain.

I love the rain and everything about the monsoons!

I love the season well When forest glades are teeming with bright forms, Nor dark and many-folded clouds foretell The coming of storms.

I have never been quite sure who controls the weather. Although we always prayed for clear skies, I have had to preach in all kinds of storms.

Over the river a golden ray of sun came through the hosts of leaden rain clouds.

I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers, From the seas and the streams; I bear light shade for the leaves when laid In their noonday dreams. From my wings are shaken the dews that waken The sweet buds every one, When rocked to rest on their mother's breast, As she dances about the sun. I wield the flail of the lashing hail, And whiten the green plains under, And then again I dissolve it in rain, And laugh as I pass in thunder.

Rain, rain, and sun! A rainbow in the sky!

The rain's innumerable hooves spatter on the streets and roofs.

It was a dark and stormy night.

Look at mother nature on the run in the 1970's.

Against the windows the storm comes dashing, Through tattered foliage the hail tears crashing, The blue lightning flashes, The rapid hail clashes... The thunder is rumbling And crashing and crumbling.

See yonder little cloud, that, borne aloft So tenderly by the wind, floats fast away Over the snowy peaks!

when the sky is as grey as this - impeccably grey, a denial, really of the very concept of colour - and the stooped millions lift their heads, it's hard to tell the air from the impurities in our human eyes, as if the sinking climbing paisley curlicues of grit were part of the element itself, rain, spores, tears, film, dirt. Perhaps, at such moments, the sky is no more then the sum of the dirt that lives in our human eyes.

He will hear the rain before he feels it, a clicking on the dry grass, on the olive leaves.