Discover the most popular and inspiring quotes and sayings on the topic of Damp. Share them with your friends on social media platforms like Facebook, Twitter, or your personal blogs, and let the world be inspired by their powerful messages. Here are the Top 100 Damp Quotes And Sayings by 94 Authors including Lois Lowry,David Baldacci,Raymond Chandler,Du Fu,Maud Hart Lovelace for you to enjoy and share.
Oh the weather outside is frightful...
The place smelled of mildew and rot. What
The wet air was as cold as the ashes of love.
My heart is in a world of water and crystal, My clothes are damp in this time of spring rains.
A house with nothing old in it seems - unseasoned.
rain, I don't mind
sunbeams everywhere and mist floating like freshly minted
The soft droppes of rain perce the hard marble.
I had seen the damp lying on the outside of my little window, as if some goblin had been crying there all night, and using the window for a pocket-handkerchief.
The wind and the rain, gives this place a gleam that just isn't natural. And the ground, alive with crawling things, crawling death.
Books were a closed book to Moist.
the night is damp, and the cobbles will be slippery." When
When there is not a breath of wind, the waters sometimes shudder as if from inside and take on the finish of washed silk.
Sometimes it rained, but mostly it was just dull, a land without shadows. It was like living inside Tupperware.
The air had lost its icy feel, but now a thin, sickly mist clung to everything, wrapping around tree trunks and moving over the ground in visible tides.
Outside, the world whistled. The rain was stained.
Instead,
she's as still
as a leaf-littered pond,
dark water evaporating,
waiting desperately for rain.
It was a summer shower but didn't appear to know it, and it was pouring rain as fast as a winter storm. Miss Perspicacia Tick sat in what little shelter a raggedy hedge could give her and explored the universe. She didn't notice the rain. Witches dried out quickly.
The mist after rain, uninterrupted rainfall on rooftops, pitter-patter intellect. The thoughts I leave behind like footsteps.
Outside, the rain was still falling steadily; he could hear it pattering on the glass skylight at the far end of the room and cascading into the water-spouts. Inside, no one stirred; all were dozing like himself over their liqueur glasses, pleasantly conscious that they were in the dry.
Was still a fine, persistent drizzle. There was a word in Scots for it - smirr.
A fine silver rain, like cobwebs falling.
Rain, forever raining. Drown me in sleep. And soon.
The two of us warmed by a bold beam of light that wicks the moisture from my dress, my hair, and my skin - returning it to the sky where it promises to find me again in the form of dew, snow, or rain.
The earth is soaked and soggy with rain. Everything is drinking its fill and the surplus gluts the drains. The sky is full of it and lies low over the earth, heavy and dense. Even the sea is wetter than usual!
Moisture is the essence of wetness, and wetness is the essence of beauty.
I had been here during heavy rain, the kind of rain that becomes pleasurable to watch because it makes of the house a haven. The rooms in which one moves become a world apart from the wet streets, the sodden garden.
The air is all softness.
...it was both raining and shining outside - a bit of meteorological weirdness whose name no one can seem to agree on.
Oh, the weather outside is weather.
The slow regard of silent things had wafted off the moisture in the air.
Gloomy calm of idle vacancy.
I am watching parts of me evaporate like sidewalk water. This wet grey, this nighttime dew, gone before morning.
As it began, rain ended quickly in Yorkshire. There was no gradual waning of water, no silent mist to ease the way from heavy drops to dry skies. Instead, there was a simple change, like the snuffing of a candle. One moment, there was pounding rain, and the next ... silence.
Ms. Vampire Lady, you're all wet.
The rain hit the windows like rice; the fire roared hollowly; the autumn afternoon discoloured into darkness.
Calm as still water,
Darkness fell like a wet sponge.
It is the fine rain that soaks us through.
The air was hot and wet, as if it had absorbed the sweat of countless bodies. It dripped also with scandal.
dazed mind. Early morning rays highlighted the water stains shining through the slap-dash
Moisture falls from the sky, cleansing the world and sustaining precious life. But it's the gloom - the cold, dark air - that receives notice. We fail to see the miracle of raindrops through our own tears.
Those who love the rain much cannot long remain dry!
Tut-tut, it looks like rain.
so fresh in a building with no windows.
Water overflowed from the broken guttering, cascading from the missing down pipe over the flaky clapboard siding. A faded tarpaulin nailed over a window appeared to breathe as the wind sucked it in and puffed it out again.
Jabbo and Bungalow came in out of the weather in a bathless reek of cold wool and splo whiskey.
During the say the traces of summer , reluctant to depart, still set the sand afire, and their bare feet could not stand it for more than five minutes at a time. But when the sun set, the crack-ridden walls of the room let in the cold night damp.
Rain in the graveyard, and the world puddled into blurred reflections.
This dewdrop world
Is but a dewdrop world
And yet -
CLOUDS SPILLED DOWN FROM THE SKY AND swamped the streets with a hot mist that made the thermometers on the walls perspire. Halfway through
In New Orleans, the inspired feel sultry; the rest just feel sweaty.
The air was thick and still, chilled. Water dripped somewhere, irregularly. Was the sun positioned perfectly to send ruddy rays of light through the swirling dust within, throwing their shadows long and stark across the floor? Of course it was.
The night was mossy and hot...
There was an air of decay that enveloped the property as if it had been kissed by dead lips glossed with mildew.
The rain echoed in the shadowy attic space and made me feel small and fragile, like a lace glove left behind on moving day - mateless and abandoned.
The rain swirls over the trees and roofs of the town, and the parched earth soaks it up, exuding a fragrance that comes only once in a year, the fragrance of quenched earth, the most exhilarating of all smells.
The rain wasn't the usual glittering silver, but dark and dirty, as if nature were a scrubwoman wringing out a filthy mop.
Always wetweating-always wetweating!
The very air seemed grey and green and still.
My hands felt bruised from the hot, dry air. Inside,
The air is hot, the atmosphere a bruise.
Poverty made a sound like a wet cough in the shadows of the room.
Very hot and still the air was, Very smooth the gliding river, Motionless the sleeping shadows.
Moonlight slipped in through the lace curtains, slicing everything with its sliver cracks. That's how I felt right now - cold and cracked and hollow and empty.
Do you realize, Tyler,' says Anna-Louise, 'the entire time we were in the forest it rained steadily and not once did we approach a state of moistness? There was a storm and we didn't even know.
You feel rain in a used bookstore. The old pages pick up the damp and mustiness like old bones do rheumatism.
The sky is low and gray and loose and seems to hang. There's something baggy about the sky.
No, you're mistaken. Not 'What filthy weather' but 'It's a fine rainy day.
It's sad to know you've gone through it all, or most of it, without ... that the one body you'v wrapped your arms around, the only skin you've ever known, is your own ... and that's it's dry, and not warm.
I guess the difference is that dampness comes down but dankness rises up out of rot and fermentation.
Rain woke him, a slow drizzle, his feet tangled in coils of discarded fiberoptics. The arcade's sea of sound washed over him, receded, returned. Rolling over, he sat up and held his head.
The next morning dawned cool and clear. The early mist had lifted, leaving a thick layer of dew clinging to the hillsides beyond the castle, shimmering in the morning sun like faerie dust sprinkled over a lush bed of emerald.
Like his eyes.
I listen to the rainfall,
my words wanna flow!
Droplets run down the wall,
where do they go?
Letters in the raw,
mesh together for the show!
The city lay cool and dim beneath a vaulting sky of high-scudding gray clouds. A gray shroud that covered the corpses of buildings, stiff in brick-and-steel rigor mortis, pale in their eternity of sooty death.
Beached under the spumy blooms, we lie
Sea-sick and fever-dry.
It is one of those big-smelling days, when people bring the outdoors in with them, the scent of rain on their sleeves, in their hair.
The sky, drunk with spring and giddy with its fumes, thickened with clouds. Low clouds, drooping at the edges like felt sailed over the woods and rain leapt from them, warm, smelling of soil and sweat, and washing the last of the black armor-plating of ice from the earth.
And depression settled over the kitchen like a wet fog.
Tut, Tut, looks like rain
The walls are cracked and water runs upon them within threads without sound, black and glistening as blood.
THE HOT WATER'S a scorcher and the cold water's like a winter puddle, and the shower offers nothing in between.
I love cold, rainy weather.
The hot, stagnant air, only marginally cooler without the sun's heat, draped us in its sticky blanket.
It's so dry the trees are bribing the dogs.
I feel like the earth, astonished at fragrance borne in the air, made pregnant with mystery from a drop of rain.
Today was a rainy, dreary, wear-your-steel-toed-mud-shoes Wednesday.
A perfect silence blanketed the floor like a heavy fog. The
It was not warm and not cold. There was no wind and the sky was very low and grey but it wasn't raining. It was like they'd completely run out of weather.
Spindly branches of buttercups were secreted among gleaming stems still moist at the roots from last night's rain that had washedand refreshed the entire wood, had dowered it in poignant transparency, the unique, inconsolable quality of rainy countries, as if all was glimpsed through tears.
I feel like a wet seed wild in the hot blind earth.
What an ambiance, and such a pity I'm alone: Candles giving off their glow, gusts of wind and the light tapping of rain on the windowpane - a massage for the mind. And a comforting one, too.
We were like wanderers in a desert, blessed with a rare downpour, but unable to store the rain.
The air is still and freezing cold. The sky is a perfect, pale blue. The sun has just risen, weak and watery-looking, like it has just spilled itself over the horizon and it's too lazy to clean itself up.
It wasn't a passing shower but a steady drumbeat of water, the kind of rain that settles in, puts its feet up and makes it clear that it's not going to leave.
Clouds spread out over the Atlantic like soiled linens on an unmade bed.
I realized I was wetter than spring in Seattle.
In summer, intolerable closeness; in winter, unendurable cold. All the floors were rotten. Filth on the floors an inch thick; one could slip and fall ...
The fog comes on little cat feet.
There was a languid feel to the night air the following evening. The breeze was