Be the green grass above me, with showers and dewdrops wet; and if thou wilt, remember, and if thou wilt, forget.
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Tears are the summer showers to the soul.
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Shining through tears, like April suns in showers, that labor to overcome the cloud that loads em.
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All you umpires, back to the bleachers. Referees, hit the showers. It’s my game. I pitch, I hit, I catch. I run the bases. At sunset, I’ve won or lost. At sunrise, I’m out again, giving it the old try.
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Perhaps you say, Why are the wicked joyous? Why do they live in luxury? Why do they not toil with me? It is because they who have not put down their names to strive for the crown are not bound to undergo the labors of the contest. They who have not gone down into the race-course do not annoint themselves with oil nor get covered with dust. For those whom glory awaits trouble is at hand. The perfumed spectators are wont to look on, not to join in the struggle, nor to endure the sun, the heat, the dust, and the showers ...
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When I am dead, my dearest, Sing no sad songs for me Plant thou no roses at my head, Nor shady cypress tree. Be the green grass above me With showers and dewdrops wet And if thou wilt, remember And if thou wilt, forget.
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Days change so many things -- yes, hours -- we see so differently in suns and showers.
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Opinions, like showers, are generated in high places, but they invariably descend into lower ones, and ultimately flow down to the people as rain unto the sea.
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