Cursing the weather when it ruins romance

A frequent subject of the Welsh poet Dafydd ap Gwilym is two lovers attempting to meet secretly at night. It rarely works out well. Here is representative passage from his piece The Mist (~1350).

I made a perfect tryst with my slender lovely girl, we pledged ourselves to steal away – but my journey was all in vain. I went out early to wait for her, but a mist sprang up as night came on; a cloudy mantling made the road dark, as if I were in a cave; all trace of the sky was hidden and the empty mist rose to the heavens. Before I could step one pace on my journey not a spot of the land was to be seen any more; neither the birch-wood slope, nor the shore, the hills, the mountains, nor the sea. Woe to you, you great yellow mist, that you did not ebb for a while once you were made! Like a cassock you are of the grey-black air, a very sheet without an end, the blanket of yonder lowering rain, a black weft from afar, hiding the world; like a vapour from the ovens of Hell, the smoke of the world bred up from far off, the smoke of the ghost-fires of Hades, a thick mantle over this earth, the web of the spiders of the sky that fills every place like the high seas.

(A Celtic Miscellany, Trans. Kenneth Hurlstone Jackson, p.78)

It’s essentially the 14th century version of that music video for Closing Time.