Adrip

There was a gurgling and spurting sound as of dammed water adrip.

[…] the air [was] sweet with the sap adrip from the orchards lately pruned […]

Out in the trading post he could hear them playing seven-up, could smell the brandy adrip from empty horns at the players’ elbows.

The dust in the road was laid; trees were adrip with moisture; birds sat silent in their coverts; the morning light was wan and ghastly […]

And she with Goban’s wine adrip, No more remembering what had been, Stared at the gods with laughing lip.

He was naked to the waist, his hairy breast and arms to the armpits clotted and adrip with blood, and in his hands two bloody daggers.

Melting snow gurgled in drainspouts and gutters, all Copenhagen was adrip.

[…] he [Andrew Marvell] was witty with the wittiest; was caustic, humorous; his pages adrip with classicisms;

the humanitarian, all adrip with brotherhood and profoundly convinced of the loveliness of his own soul

All the big hotels here are adrip with neon, with flashing signs, nameboards that light up one letter at a time, zipping dotted arrows […]