Quotes About Cold

The mud lay thick upon the stones, and a black mist hung over the streets; the rain fell sluggishly down, and everything felt cold and clammy to the touch.

so cold a man, that his head, instead of being grey, seemed to be sprinkled with hoar-frost. Immense

he felt the chilling influence of its death-cold eyes

Winter giveth the fields, and the trees so old, Their beards of icicles and snow...

snowflakes fall from the sky in peppermint perfection — i kiss you with quivering lips but cold is not the reason — you set my winter heart on fire and keep me warm all season

This is an excellent martini — sort of tastes like it isn't there at all, just a cold cloud.

The hard journalism that covers greed and violence and malevolence — we would almost expect the ink to glimmer red, as does the spilt blood of mankind — but there it is, always staring back at us in cold, fact-black.

I hate January, it's the Monday of months.

You lie dead and cold— Unsuspecting. Who could fathom what you hold?— Bones of poets, castles, carved marble— A doll's head. You lie dead and cold— Unsuspecting.

Buttons and patches and the cold wind blowing, The days pass quickly when I am sewing.

It was a messy, whipping, every-which-direction, cold drops in warm air, big-splattered summer rain.

The snow is sparkling like a million little suns.

I am a blade of silver, a sickle of ice - Assassin Ghe, old assassin mantra

La emotividad en el arte, argüía Flaubert, es barata, de folletín. El arte debe ser frío y contenido para que sea el espectador, no el autor, quien brinde el sentimiento a la obra, y no a la inversa.

A estas alturas y mientras dura el frío, la cocina es el estrado, el gabinete y el estudio

Knowledge without Spirit is like finding yourself on a cold night with all the wood in the world and having no flame with which to ignite it.

Winter was coming.

the feeling of cold emptiness, of having nothing to offer, made the journey a misery.

When the short days of winter came, dusk fell before we had well eaten our dinners. When we met in the street the houses had grown sombre. The space of sky above us was the colour of ever-changing violet and towards it the lamps of the street lifted their feeble lanterns. The cold air stung us and we played till our bodies glowed. Our shouts echoed in the silent street.

It was cold autumn weather, but in spite of the cold they wandered up and down the roads of the Park for nearly three hours. They agreed to break off their intercourse; every bond, he said, is a bond to sorrow.

Alone, what did Bloom feel? The cold of interstellar space, thousands of degrees below freezing point or the absolute zero of Fahrenheit, Centigrade or Réaumur: the incipient intimations of proximate dawn.

The cold air stung us and we played till our bodies glowed.

There was cold sunlight outside the window.

WHEN ISHMAEL WOKE, the walls of his trench were seeping water and the dawn was colder than it should have been, the sky an unnatural and ubiquitous pale color that had less to do with the rising of the sun than the passing of the night.