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“Those who hate rain hate life.”
― Dejan Stojanovic

“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.”
― Walter de la Mare, Peacock Pie

“Don't let the rain drive you to the wrong shelter; the shade can turn out to be your protector and also your destroyer, and sometimes the rain is the perfect protector from the rain.”
― Michael Bassey Johnson

“Nothing reminds us of an awakening more than rain.”
― Dejan Stojanovic

“Colors shone with exceptional clarity in the rain. The ground was a deep black, the pine branches a brilliant green, the people wrapped in yellow looking like special spirits that were allowed to wander over the earth on rainy mornings only.”
― Haruki Murakami, Norwegian Wood

“What are you staring at?"
"Rain drops on window glass is a sort of love-bite, is it not?”
― Jasleen Kaur Gumber

“The scatterbrain,
is a little like,
the patter of rain.

Neither here,
nor there,
but everywhere.”
― Lang Leav, Love & Misadventure

“I love the smell of rain and growing things.”
― Serina Hernandez

“Rain clouds come floating in, not to muddy my days ahead, but to make me calm, happy and hopeful.”
― rajuda

“Don't wish,"said Rain, "don't start. Wishing only...”
― Gregory Maguire, Out of Oz

“A small and sinister snow seems to be coming down relentlessly at present. The radio says it is eventually going to be sleet and rain, but I don't think so; I think it is just going to go on and on, coming down, until the whole world...etc. It has that look.”
― Edward Gorey, Floating Worlds: The Letters of Edward Gorey & Peter F. Neumeyer

“Fenugreek, Tuesday's spice, when the air is green like mosses after rain.”
― Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni, The Mistress of Spices

“The river and the garden have been the foundations of my economy here. Of the two I have liked the river best. It is wonderful to have the duty of being on the river the first and last thing every day. I have loved it even in the rain. Sometimes I have loved it most in the rain.”
― Wendell Berry, Jayber Crow

“Emerald slopes became so tall they touched the clouds, and showers painted diamond waterfalls that sluiced down cliff sides.”
― Victoria Kahler, Capturing the Sunset

“The Sun after the rain is much beautiful than the Sun before the rain!”
― Mehmet Murat ildan

“The rain continued. It was a hard rain, a perpetual rain, a sweating and steaming rain; it was a mizzle, a downpour, a fountain, a whipping at the eyes, an undertow at the ankles; it was a rain to drown all rains and the memory of rains.”
― Ray Bradbury

“A light rain touches my cheek like an angel's butterfly kisses.”
― Amanda Mosher, Better to be able to love than to be loveable

“He cursed himself for having assumed the weather would be sunny. Perhaps it was the result of evolution, he thought--some adaptive gene that allowed the English to go on making blithe outdoor plans in the face of almost certain rain.”
― Helen Simonson, Major Pettigrew's Last Stand

“No rain but thunder, and the sound of giants.”
― Mike Mignola, Hellboy, Vol. 9: The Wild Hunt

“Scents were like rain, or birds. They left and came back.”
― Erica Bauermeister, The Scent Keeper

“It was the day of the worms. That first almost-warm, after-the-rainy-night day in April, when you bolt from your house to find yourself in a world of worms. They were as numerous here in the East End as they had been in the West. The sidewalks, the streets. The very places where they didn't belong. Forlorn, marooned on concrete and asphalt, no place to burrow, April's orphans.”
― Jerry Spinelli, Maniac Magee

“It has been raining here for ten years.I keep an accurate record of time and can state this with no fear of contradiction.”
― Alastair Bruce, Wall of Days

“Be like water,

Flow like a river,

Crash like the rain,

Fly like the cloud again!”
― Md. Ziaul Haque

“Instead of blue skies and sunshine, there are grey clouds and endless rain that seeps into your bones, your soul.”
― Cathy Cassidy, Angel Cake

“Rain comes down through the alders,
Its low conductive voices
Mutter about let-downs and erosions
And yet each drop recalls

The diamond absolutes.”
― Seamus Heaney, North

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

The rain makes still pools on the sidewalk.
The rain makes running pools in the gutter.
The rain plays a little sleep-song on our roof at night�

And I love the rain.”
― Langston Hughes

“He took me down and out into the afterlife of the brightly lit streets, a haze of rain around each streetlight like a galaxy, the whole street a universe spread out like a banquet.”
― Michael Montoure, Slices

“Rain, rain, rain. Like a benediction from some vast inscrutable hand, long withheld, finally given. The blessed, wonderful rain. For rain meant grass, and grass was life.”
― Colleen McCullough

“Prague, c'est beau, même sous la pluie.Les monuments se reflètent dans la Place de la Vieille Ville. La maison qui danse a l'air ivre.”
― Mirelle Hdb

“But mostly, finally, ultimately, I'm here for the weather.

As a result of the weather, ours is a landscape in a minor key, a sketchy panorama where objects, both organic and inorganic, lack well-defined edges and tent to melt together, creating a perpetual blurred effect, as if God, after creating Northwestern Washington, had second thoughts and tried unsuccessfully to erase it. Living here is not unlike living inside a classical Chinese painting before the intense wisps of mineral pigment had dried upon the silk - although, depending on the bite in the wind, they're times when it's more akin to being trapped in a bad Chinese restaurant; a dubious joint where gruff waiters slam chopsticks against the horizon, where service is haphazard, noodles soggy, wallpaper a tad too green, and considerable amounts of tea are spilt; but in each and every fortune cookie there's a line of poetry you can never forget. Invariably, the poems comment on the weather.

In the deepest, darkest heart of winter, when the sky resembles bad banana baby food for months on end, and the witch measles that meteorologists call "drizzle" are a chronic gray rash on the skin of the land, folks all around me sink into a dismal funk. Many are depressed, a few actually suicidal. But I, I grow happier with each fresh storm, each thickening of the crinkly stratocumulus. "What's so hot about the sun?" I ask. Sunbeams are a lot like tourists: intruding where they don't belong, promoting noise and forced activity, faking a shallow cheerfulness, dumb little cameras slung around their necks. Raindrops, on the other hand, introverted, feral, buddhistically cool, behave as if they were locals. Which, of course, they are.”
― Tom Robbins, Wild Ducks Flying Backward