24.04.2021
I love rain... The music of rain is beautiful. Many Russian classical poets loved rain and wrote many beautiful short and long poems. Pushkin, Fet, Yesenin, Tyutchev and other famous classics, whose poems about rain you will find on this page.
If it’s raining outside - spring or summer, or maybe autumn - don’t be sad! Read poems about rain.
Essay on why I love rain
In the last days and months, she had only one thing to do - love him. 24 hours a day, 60 minutes per hour and the same number of seconds per minute. If you multiplied everything, it turned out that she had loved him for an eternity. In absolute terms. No breaks for lunch or sleep. In all this eternity, she saw him only once. And then, it was... well.. not exactly him... More precisely, she guessed that it was him, not right away, but she felt it, and it’s difficult to judge her for this, because his appearance was far from what she saw on photographs completed with 3-D imagination. No mysticism, just the art of transformation. It has been a long time since she asked herself stupid and unanswerable questions like: why do I need this? what should I do with myself? how to come up with a way of life so as not to go crazy, and - most importantly: what's next? She was a big girl and lived with her eyes open for a long time, only occasionally allowing herself to become entangled in the networks of illusions. Well, for example, after watching another masterpiece of French cinema. Or reading some talented, sad, melodic, soul-enveloping novel. Definitely sad, so that it hurts at the end. As a child, she loved rain. Together with a melancholy girlfriend, who was great at parallel bars exercises, her mother died when she (the friend) turned 14, and therefore she was very pampered by her dad and older brother, they spanked all the surrounding puddles in the area that was continuing to be built up. (Where, by the way, there was a huge number of exhibitionists... Many years later, she still could not find an explanation for the spread of this phenomenon in her immediate habitat). They wandered around, talking about everything in the world that seemed significant to them then, experiencing peace and a buzz from this fermentation (such a word, however, did not yet exist in spoken Russian). I was still sick a lot. That's why I read a lot. All this was perfectly combined with simple guitar playing and learning drive-up songs like “And you didn’t come today again. And I waited, hoped and believed so much...” And until I was nineteen, I was sad about the fact that I wasn’t doing my own thing, living a life that wasn’t my own, in the wrong family, in the wrong society... I was terribly sad. Up to chemical and biological changes in the body. Which, when four months later she finally involved her grandmother in the issue, and the grandmother, in turn, involved medical relatives, were in a matter of days brought into full order and the original intent of nature. For some reason she thought it would be great to live in the fifties. In a huge communal apartment, always buzzing, screaming and defending its rights - somewhere on Malaya Bronnaya. Or, at worst, on Old Arbat. To walk in the gateways in the evenings and be afraid. Well, Okudzhava wasn’t afraid, after all? And Tsoi was sung there in the evenings by boys and girls with fanatically burning eyes. Who had nowhere to sleep and nothing to eat. But there was always something to drink... Then something happened. And she stopped loving the rain. And grayness. And sadness. She became a student, moved away from her parents, lived all the sessions in the university dispensary (a cool excuse, by the way), inventing some simple disease like “vegetative-vascular dystonia” for this. In the faculty trade union committee there was someone to fight for her, so there was no case when she was not given a permit. So here it is. She fell in love with the sun. Completely unexpected for myself. Realizing this not immediately, but years later. For the first time - when I went with my suddenly beloved old friend to the bank of the Moscow River, disrupting him after giving a lecture at the university, which ended with a standing ovation from the students... They lay on a blanket in the grass, exhausted with desire, and read poetry to each other. He, of course, is Pushkin, and she is the then beloved Vertinsky: “I am insanely afraid of the golden captivity of your copper-snake hair. I am in love with your subtle name Irena And with the traces of your tears, your tears...” It was then that he asked her which element was hers? And she, without hesitation, answered: rain. That summer, when she was pregnant, there were frequent thunderstorms. One evening he called her and asked if she was afraid to open all the windows in the house like that, because lightning... She laughed and answered: no, and for some reason he said that he wanted to go out the window and that now three people love her... .. She fell in love with the sun when she noticed, probably, that vitamin D2 is produced only when it is present. And in its absence or deficiency - one hundred percent rickets. Like children in Africa. Which, by the way, always amazed her. In Africa, the sun is through the roof! Well, an athlete, an activist, a Komsomol member, a good girl (however, she tried smoking at the age of 14. And swearing. Smoking in the end worked, swearing didn’t), winner of various Olympiads at school - that’s understandable. Then life took one turn. Another. Third. There was no clarity. All the time I wanted something else... Unconscious. Unformulated to the end. No, just don’t need this pink snot about love-carrots. We know. We passed. When you are everything to him, and he is everything to you, well, so... When at night you alter his threadbare leather jacket, having first scoured all over Moscow in search of twill, padding polyester, woolen elastic bands like “noodles” that do not exist in nature, etc. You make a pattern by eye, like some ace seamstress from the house of Chanel, you sew the lining with a “check” so that it doesn’t differ from the original, the machine breaks down because it’s not suitable, you know, “Chaika” for stitching leather. And all this - from my own, albeit increased, but still scholarship... Then there were more abrupt turns. And even cooler. But it was precisely at that moment when the goal was achieved in the form of a stable high salary, interesting (in the first years) and promising work, acquiring varied and useful, sometimes very useful, business acquaintances, and life began to flow in the well-developed bed of a flat river, to live again it became uninteresting. So much so that I wanted to destroy everything to hell. I was waiting for a reason. On a subconscious level, of course. And the reason nevertheless appeared on the horizon. After, however, many years of sailing along a boring and wide river... The rain had been pouring for several hours and still showed no signs of fatigue. Thunderous lazy rumbles sometimes drowned out too loud thoughts... In the house, everyone was minding their own business.. Everyone lived their own secret life. No one was bored.. 06/15/2014 Tags:
Beautiful poems about rain
Short poem “I love walks in the rain” (Elena Solis)
I love walks in the rain, (It’s so convenient to hide tears in it). It doesn’t matter: at night or during the day... I’m waiting for cyclone forecasts. So that, taking off your shoes... barefoot... Walking through the streets in figure, In a simple cotton dress With a satin openwork umbrella... Drinking the silence, inhaling the tenderness of the Crystal caresses of heavenly waters, Drawing on the serenity of the Saints, sky-high heights with your soul...
Poem "I love listening to the rain"
I love listening to the rain With my nose buried in your shoulders After all, in bad weather outside the window It’s nice to meet the evening together Hot chocolate... comfort And my soul... my heart is lighter Alone... alone with the rain And you... kiss my shoulders...
Rain (A. Fet)
It’s still light in front of the window, The sun shines through the gaps in the clouds, And a sparrow flutters with its wing, bathing in the sand.
And from heaven to earth, the curtain moves, swaying, and as if in golden dust, the edge of the forest stands behind it.
Two drops splashed onto the glass, the linden trees smelled like fragrant honey, and something approached the garden, drumming on the fresh leaves.
Poem when you're sad - about rain
Brew me strong autumn tea. A blanket on my shoulders, evening at the doorstep. Quiet sadness creeps into the house, Well, friend, let's be sad a little. The rain is knocking on the window, autumn blues. The wind is caught somewhere in the clouds. A sad but brilliant union Wind, autumn, rain, there is a trio of the best. The swing creaks sadly in the yard. The maple leaves in the puddles are fading. Autumn's holy cradle, This evening gently rocks. I’ll open the window and breathe in this air of pure peace. Autumn gives you time to relax and be alone with yourself.
Short verse “Rain, wind, puddles, sidewalk” (Artur Garipov)
Rain, wind, puddles, sidewalk. Window, element, landscape. Trembling, evening, dinner, Carte Noir. Notepad, poetry and pencil...
Poem “I love your smell and puddles”
Oh my rain, you are almighty I love your smell and puddles I love to walk with you Fall asleep together with you Your knock on the glass window Brings joy every time Wake up my very sleepy brain Let it be every day, let it be every hour
Everyone is complaining about the rain...
Everyone scolds the rain, but he is offended: He tried so hard! Can't you see? I washed all the paths, Roofs and cars, Parks, stadiums, Windows and shop windows. Everything became shiny and so beautiful! But no one said “Thank you” for this. So the rain is crying, drizzling sadly - He tried so hard to be kind and sweet!
Rain - Voices of the Universe
Rain from heaven to earth. Rain in silver dust. Rain, you are the way to heaven. Rain is the voice of the universe.
Rain streams from the star. Rain is not only caused by water. Rain from life and fate. Rain from dreams and dreams.
Spring rain
It's raining and gray fogs outside, But the culprit spring is not sad, Having enveloped everything in blooming gardens, She comes into her own again. This morning, smiling at the clouds, Catching droplets of rain in her palms, Laughing, she quickly ran through the puddles, beckoning wet passersby to follow her.
It rained all night (Dudin)
It rained all night. In the flash of white lightning, He hit the glass with splashes of dust. And, filling the whole room with the smell, they shook off the wings of the poplar.
And you slept like a fairy-tale bird, Transparent and light as feathers. What dreams could you have had, What songs pleased your ears?
It was a sweet dream. And the semicircles of eyelashes were closed, like leaves. But the morning went on in chirping and whistling, all in the clicking of unrealistic birds.
It seemed as if the world would drown in that twitter, It would be drowned by this ringing din. And I wanted to take you in my hands and, like a bird, bring you to my lips.
Beautiful verse “The garden rustled, and the mushroom rain knocked on the leaves”
The garden began to rustle, and the rain of mushrooms pounded on the leaves. Soon the world became, like Eden, fresh and clean again.
And a ray from the gray clouds looks into the mirrors of the puddles - How the spruce grows, how the bumblebee buzzes, how the snake glitters.
Oh, mushroom rain, stretch the crystal thread down, All the bushes are waiting - let the branches live, let the flowers drink.
Apply a light beam to them, a million lenses, Look into the soil, into the roots of grass, look at life.
Look, ray, into my depths, explain - how to wash away the dust from the soul, give water to the dryness, clear up the darkness?
But the rain passed, and the thunder went into the forest, And, covered in tears, my house looks into the distance from the window.
Rain Music... It's beautiful!
Rain Music... It's beautiful! The pain washes away from the wounded Soul. Not subject to any intrigues, Evil sprouts mercilessly destroy.
With furious, lashing waves, it hits backhand, stings and intoxicates. Like the roar of a powerful Tsunami, the Truth of Life speaks to us.
It can be pure and gentle, pressed tenderly... to your face, Drops... of unexpected... Hope Spread across the window glass.
Can be frantic and passionate, Kisses all over the body... dance, Can be both powerful and dangerous. Can your heart... kiss.
Music of the Rain... It's wonderful! You just need to hear and understand. It can be Salvation or the Abyss, You just need to accept the Truth...
All clouds, clouds (A. Fet)
Everything is cloudy, cloudy, and all around everything is burned, everything is dying. Which archangel brings them to my fields with his wing?
The rain hung like light smoke, In vain the steppe around was thirsty, And above me there was only one rainbow standing at dawn.
Humble yourself, restless poet, - Moisture of life descends from heaven, What you expect is not there, Only the undeserved is good.
I - I can’t do anything; Only one can, who, the mighty one, Erected a transparent arc And sends life-giving clouds.
