“Come, be my love in the wet woods; come, Where the boughs rain when it blows.” ― Robert Frost, A Boy's Will

 “The day, a compunctious Sunday after a week of blizzards, had been part jewel, part mud. In the midst of my usual afternoon stroll through the small hilly town attached to the girls' college where I taught French literature, I had stopped to watch a family of brilliant icicles drip-dripping from the eaves of a frame house. So clear-cut were their pointed shadows on the white boards behind them that I was sure the shadows of the falling drops should be visible too. But they were not.”

― Vladimir Nabokov, American Fantastic Tales: Terror and the Uncanny from the 1940's Until Now