The day is cold, and dark, and dreary; It rains, and the wind is never weary; The vine still clings to the mouldering wall, But at every gust the dead leaves fall, And the day is dark and dreary.
My life is cold, and dark, and dreary; It rains, and the wind is never weary; My thoughts still cling to the mouldering past, But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast, And the days are dark and dreary.
Be still, sad heart, and cease repining; Behind the clouds is the sun still shining; Thy fate is the common fate of all, Into each life some rain must fall, Some days must be dark and dreary.
A road lined with burnt out junkers, And garbage fires 'round which hunker Cold souls sitting in drizzling rain -- That rain, that rain, their eternal bane.
Blue skies are a distant memory -- Except for in every reverie That denies claustrophobic skies The main villain role - e'er reprised.
Where's our long-lost hero, the sun? Have stout clouds got him on the run? Or maybe our hero 's bleeding out; Its feeble showing leaves room for doubt.
Depends on whether I’m outside or inside. If the former, I favor the partly cloudy to sunny range, depending on how brutal or gentle the sun is, respectively. If the latter, I’ve got nothing against a cleansing torrential downpour.
In temperate climates, I like early Autumn — say, October. In the tropics, whatever period is neither intensely hot nor intensely monsoon-y, is aces. Where I’m at now: November through March.
Why? I overheat when it’s hot, and that’s unpleasant. I’m fine with rain, but being constantly waterlogged is no fun. I like a cool Goldilocks zone.
Trapped on the island by typhoon.
It's evening dark, though at high noon.
The waves are wild and still rising.
So, ferries won't be running soon.
The few streets there are lie silent,
but - seaside - the winds whip violent.
We hide inside a bungalow,
and hope it's fixed firmer than my tent.
One 's always where it's most remote
when they cancel all ferryboats:
where there're too many thoughts to think,
and few distractive antidotes.
a typhoon stalled offshore,
and dreary clings to this place
a miasma written in solid hours
when will clouds crack
&
let the light in?
just one blue bolt of sky,
showing through a crevice?
my head is in fog,
and I can't hear
my pounding heart
over the crashing of waves
It rains for days on end in this city.
The people peer out under umbrellas.
Nothing 's washed clean; it's soggy & gritty
and brutal as a Kafka novella.
The streets aren't light, but nor are they true dark.
The light isn't absent, just sapped of vim.
The gray that remains is like Fall in Denmark.
Relentless rain is relentlessly grim.
The gutters are glutted with murk and sludge.
The rushing waters can't sweep it all clean.
All work 's drudgery and all walks a trudge,
and there's no sparkle in the pavement sheen.
Do some "sing in the rain?" No, they just mock --
their umbrella flipped out and w/ sodden socks.
Tiger Riding for Beginners 