Quotes About Winter

Muchos elementos de aquel invierno fueron… mágicos; vuelve a ser la única palabra, y gran parte de aquella magia era que, al margen de lo mucho o poco que tuviéramos que ofrecer de nosotras, siempre queríamos darle más a la otra.

Boston lay in shambles. During the winter months, shivering redcoats had chopped down trees in the Common and ripped apart old buildings for firewood. The Flucker mansion had been looted. Other homes and shops were abandoned, crumbling, ruinous reminders of Boston's pre-Revolutionary splendor.

A coat in the winter is not fashion.

The winter fortress was prepared for an all-out assault. All these heightened defenses signaled the importance of the atomic program to the Nazi war effort

The autumn twilight turned into deep and early night as they walked. Tristran could smell the distant winter on the air—a mixture of night-mist and crisp darkness and the tang of fallen leaves.... the crescent moon hung white in the sky and the stars burned in the darkness above them.

I can remember the Winter of the Hundred Slain as a man may remember some bad dream he dreamed when he was little, but I cannot tell just how much I heard when I was bigger and how much I understood when I was little. It is like some fearful thing in a fog, for it was a time when everything seemed troubled and afraid.

My friend, I am going to tell you the story of my life, as you wish; and if it were only the story of my life I think I would not tell it; for what is one man that he should make much of his winters, even when they bend him like a heavy snow?

As the red leaf warns: winter will be with us soon enough. If only I could bottle a little of this sunshine up and open it in January, like jam

It was one of those cold, wet winter days when if you get stuck watching sport or an old movie, you can miss that short period between dawn and dusk altogether.

when the snow begins to fall once again, she catches a flake on her tongue and feels, lapping against her belly, the lake it was drawn from by summer sun, far away—a lake like a promise she will one day know. Then as the world folds down for winter, so too do the girl and her mother, listening to the crackle of flame and, beyond the leather door curtain, the soft hiss of snow settling over the hills and hollows like white felt.

She looked up, expecting Aoifre. It was Uaithne. She leaned against the fence; her hood was drawn and snow clung to her hair. Her skin was creamy, fresh, with a delicate flush of exertion, and very smooth. Her gloves were tucked under her belt, next to her knife. The carving on the bone handle was smooth with use. She smiled.

Eye infections were always worse in winter when everyone crowded together and the fires smoked.

She saw more blood in the snow that winter than she had in the whole of her life.

Her mother couldn't read. Her mother hadn't noticed the signs of a bad winter. Cian wasn't even there. Hereswith was far away, and Fursey. She had taken a double risk and there was no one to help her.

Hild roamed the vale and its thicket of woods, collecting herb and watching the world slow down, fade, and tidy itself away for winter.

She loved peregrines in winter: solitary, fierce, and dangerous, their cries clean and bright as a blade.

The fact that nothing in this world fulfills us does not prevent us from longing for a world that is less ignoble and less ugly. In a well-tended garden the soul observes with nobler tranquility the initial onslaught of winter.

I am a winter person, never happier than on a clear, frosty morning.

It's no wonder, however, that somebody would get cold who had knocked about all day in hell, where, as we know, it is not so cold as it is here in winter, and where, a chef's hat on his head and standing before the hearth like a real cook, he had been roasting sinners with as much pleasure as any woman roasts sausages at Christmas.

The raft was seized, with a noise like needles knitting, and we were hemmed in for winter -- river and the old channel's oxbow lake having frozen solid. By now, we guessed we were not two ordinary river travelers...it must have been the river that was extraordinary: a marvel that protected us by the same mysterious action that had given a common horse wings and changed a woman into a laurel tree.

The negatives he did manage were made in the hour or two when the sun seemed to rally with a yellowy light reminiscent of an egg yolk; usually, it looked pale as a pearl on the steely blue or leaden sky above the snow-scrubbed lake. That's a purple passage fit for a novel but hardly descriptive of the actuality of that winter, which was almost past enduring.

Winter is the king of showmen, Turning tree stumps into snowmen And houses into birthday cakes And spreading sugar over lakes. Smooth and clean and frosty white, The world looks good enough to bite. That's the season to be young, Catching snowflakes on your tongue. Snow is snowy when it's snowing, I'm sorry it's slushy when it's going.

Snow is all right while it is snowing; it is like inebriation because it is very pleasing when it is coming, but very unpleasing when it is going.

Winter, I wrote, was akin to living inside a refrigerator.