I was just revisiting an obscure Victorian poem about rain and memory, and it struck me how authors use weather as a mirror for the soul—ever come across something like that?

That’s so true—just like in Woolf’s “Mrs. Dalloway,” the rain seems to seep into the characters’ memories, almost like a translucent curtain between what’s spoken and what’s remembered. It’s a neat way authors use weather to externalise the inner.