Quotes About Winter

And then her heart changed, or at least she understood it; and the winter passed, and the sun shone upon her.

Summer was his foe with all its heat, noise, plump water, and bladed grasses belonging to the flowers, mosquitos, frogs, and twittering cicadas—little lives and little bugs. All he deserved was the silence of a chilling night, the detachment of cold winter. He saw himself as a dwindling man of winter.

I'm through with frost, ice, and snow To the human world, I must go! I'll form a cool, Gobolicious Band. Magical instruments will lend a hand. With these Instruments, I'll go far. Frosty jack, is a superstar I'll steal music's harmony and fun Watch out world, I'll be number one!

I miss the snow. I miss looking at it, walking in it, tasting it. I used to love those days when it was so cold everyone else would be tucked away inside trying to stay warm. I would be the only one out walking, so I could look across the fields and see miles of snow without a single footprint in it. It would be completely silent -- no cars, no birds singing, no doors slamming. Just silence and snow. God, I miss snow. The stars, the moon, the wind, and blankets of pure, pristine snow.

For a split second, I realize completely and absolutely that the season of winter is sentient, that there is an intelligence behind it. There's a tremendous amount of emotional pain that comes with the magick of winter, but I still mourn when the season ends, like I'm losing my best friend.

Even now, after having been locked in a cell for years, at the coming of winter I can still close my eyes and feel myself walking the streets as everyone else lies in bed asleep. I remember how the ice sounded as it cracked in the trees every time the wind blew. The air could be so cold that it scoured my throat with each breath, but I would not want to go indoors and miss the magick of it.

It was bitterly cold. A doughnut glaze of ice already coated the shallow end of the lake.

the phenomenon of nuclear winter wasn't predicted by environmental scientists until decades after the Cuban missile crisis.

In winter the very ground seemed to reach up and grab the elderly, yanking them to earth as though hungry for them.

He walked over the arched stone bridge, enjoying the silence of the village. Snow did that. It laid down a simple, clean duvet that muffled all sound and kept everything beneath alive. Farmers and gardeners in Quebec wished for two things in winter: lots of snow and continuous cold. An early thaw was a disaster. It tricked the young and vulnerable into exposing themselves, only to be nipped in the root. A killing frost.

He'd shoved his toque and mitts into the sleeve of his parka when he'd come in the night before, and now, thrusting his right arm into the armhole, he hit the blockage. At a practiced shove the pompom of the toque crowned the cuff followed by his mitts, like a tiny birth.

Isabelle [Lacoste] sat quietly for a moment, looking into the naked woods. Only in the winter was it possible to see both the forest and the trees. Homicide, she thought, was a perpetual winter.

Instead he stood erect, the snow insinuating itself down his collar and up his sleeves, plastering against his face and into his unblinking eyes.

Getting in his car he let it warm up, feeling the heated seats grow warm under him. On a bitterly cold winter day it was almost as good as sex. Then

In winter the very ground seemed to reach up and grab the elderly, yanking them to earth as though hungry for them. Shattering a hip or wrist, or neck. Best to take it slow.

Getting in his car he let it warm up, feeling the heated seats grow warm under him. On a bitterly cold winter day it was almost as good as sex.

Outside, clouds had once again rolled in and brought with them snow. Again. Huge soft flakes, as though the clouds themselves were breaking up and drifting down in pieces.

Snow was coming down thicker now. But while it was heavy, it was also gentle. Like feathers out of a broken pillow.

Only in the winter was it possible to see both the forest and the trees.

she'd forgotten snow could be quite so beautiful. Snow, in her experience, was something that needed to be removed. It was a chore that fell from the sky. But

Useimmat mainarit olivat suomalaisia, ja töistä tultuaan he menivät suihkuun ja saunaan. Saunan edessä oli puinen karsina, ja talvella he juoksivat ulos ja kieriskelivät lumessa. Ensin me tirkistelimme aidanraosta ja hihittelimme miesten sinisiä kaluja ja palleja, mutta sitten me nauroimme ääneen niin kuin hekin, silkasta riemusta, kun oli lunta ja sininen, sininen taivas.

Hers were the pale gray that made you think of nightfall and silver bullets and the edge of winter. The color that filled the sky before it was torn in half by lightening.

FREEDOM IS THE FRAGILE NECK of a daffodil, after the longest of winters. It's the sound of your voice, without anyone drowning you out. It's having the grace to say yes, and more important, the right to say no. At the heart of freedom, hope beats: a pulse of possibility.

When you die, you don't get to catch snowflakes on your tongue. You don't get to breathe winter in, deep in your lungs. You can't lie in bed and watch for the lights of the passing town plow. You can't suck on an icicle until your forehead hurts.