A Quote by Richard Henry Stoddard
A face at the window, a tap on the pane, who is it that wants me tonight in the rain?
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When held up to the window pane, What fixed my baby stare? The glory of the glittering rain, And newness everywhere.
I looked to the window. Patch was gone, but a single black feather was pressed to the outer pane, held in place by last night's rain. Or Angel Magic
Under my head till morning; but the rain, Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh, Upon the glass and listen for reply.
But you lied again. Now you get to watch her leave out the window. Guess that's why they call it 'window pane.
Are we not wasps who spend all day in a fruitless attempt to traverse a window-pane - while the other half of the window is wide open?
A little tap at the window, as though some missile had struck it, followed by a plentiful, falling sound, as light, though, as if a shower of sand were being sprinkled from a window overhead; then the fall spread, took on an order, a rhythm, became liquid, loud, drumming, musical, innumerable, universal. It was the rain
A yellow fog swirls past the window-pane
As night descends upon the fabled street:
A lonely hansom splashes through the rain,
And ghostly gas lamps fail at twenty feet.
Here though the world explode, these two survive,
And it is always eighteen ninety-five.
I went to bed and woke in the middle of the night thinking I heard someone cry, thinking I myself was weeping, and I felt my face and it was dry. Then I looked at the window and thought: Why, yes, it's just the rain, the rain, always the rain, and turned over, sadder still, and fumbled about for my dripping sleep and tried to slip it back on.
The traditional writer is a sensitive only child, asthmatic, who sits on the window seat watching the drops of rain slide down the pane, very introspective. I'm not inward-looking. I would never go to a shrink. I don't want to know what I'm thinking. I don't really like discussions in my family. It may be an avoidance thing.
In your bed tonight, turn off all of the lights and make sure that there is no noise. There is something that you will hear. It is probably that branch slapping the window but you better believe that your mind is going to go to some sick individual tapping on the glass because he wants to get your attention to come to the window for when you do you will be grabbed through it and pulled outside. That happens to me all of the time.
Our dream dashes itself against the great mystery like a wasp against a window pane. Less merciful than man, God never opens the window.
Good prose should be transparent, like a window pane.
The roaring of the wind is my wife and the stars through the window pane are my children.
Even through the shut window pane, the world looked cold.
Time, like a flurry of wild rain,
Shall drift across the darkened pane!
It is merely an accident of history that it is considered normal in our society to believe that the Creator of the universe can hear your thoughts while it is demonstrative of mental illness to believe that he is communicating with you by having the rain tap in Morse code on your bedroom window.
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