The line-storm clouds fly tattered and swift, The road is forlorn all day, Where a myriad snowy quartz stones lift, And the hoof-prints vanish away. The roadside flowers, too wet for the bee, Expend their bloom in vain. Come over the hills and far with me, And be my love in the rain.
Clouds come floating into my life, no longer to carry rain or usher storm, but to add color to my sunset sky.
Clouds come floating into my life from other days no longer to shed rain or usher storm but to give colour to my sunset sky.
When I was a teenager, I used to love the Bronte books, 'Wuthering Heights' and 'Jane Eyre.' In those books, the women do usually manage to heal the men, but in life, I've found it's often the woman gets wounded. Instead of healing a man, she gets affected by his cruelty.
Healing can be a long and winding road or a straightforward march to the finish line.
When we look deeply into the heart of a flower, we see clouds, sunshine, minerals, time, the earth, and everything else in the cosmos in it. Without clouds there could be no rain, and without rain there would be no flower.
When people look for the road in the clouds
The cloud road disappears
The mountains are tall and steep
The streams are wide and still
Green mountains ahead and behind
White clouds to east and west
If you want to find the cloud road
Seek it within
No matter how strong the storm, how hard the rain and how vicious the wind there is always a gap in the clouds for the light to shine through
Long as I remember, rain been comin' down; Clouds of mystery fallin', confusion on the ground; Good men through the ages, trying to find the sun; And I wonder, still I wonder: Who will stop the rain?
I found out long ago, it's a long way down the holiday road. Holiday road, holiday road. Jack be nimble, Jack be quick. Take a ride on the West Coast kick. Holiday road.
You see, I had been riding with the storm clouds, and had come to earth as rain, and it was drought that I had killed with the power that the Six Grandfathers gave me.
Sunday evenings are heavier than clouds with rain, darker too and often interminable.
The business of writing a novel is a long, meandering road into the self, into the imagination. And it's a road the writer travels alone.
No storm can last forever. It will never rain 365 days consecutively. Keep in mind that trouble comes to pass, not to stay. Don't worry! No storm, not even the one in your life, can last forever.
I love Richard Yates, his work, and the novel, Revolutionary Road. It's a devastating novel.
Is it possible for a person to love without wanting love back? Is anything so pure? Or is love, by its nature, a reciprocity, like oceans and clouds, an evaporating of seawater and a replenishing by rain?