Quotes About Winter

He smiled back, but more like it was reflex. It never reached his eyes. They stayed cold and empty as a winter sky. Once the other marshals joined us he'd make his eyes sparkle, or fill with some emotion; he didn't bother when it was just us. We knew each other too well; there was no need to hide.

Too much sun after a Syracuse winter does strange things to your head, makes you feel strong, even if you aren't.

Slush is frozen over. People say that winter lasts forever, but it's because they obsess over the thermometer. North in the mountains, the maple syrup is trickling. Brave geese punch through the thin ice left on the lake. Underground, pale seeds roll over in their sleep. Starting to get restless. Starting to dream green.

translates as "cozy" but is much, much more; hygge is sitting on a dark winter's night with friends or family, the room candlelit, everyone knitting or crocheting sipping coffee or beer, eating pastry or smørrebrød talking, talking, listening, talking, enjoying the pleasure of kindred spirits with the winds howling outside

I hate winter. I've lived in Syracuse my whole life and I hate winter. It starts too early and ends too late. No one likes it.

Hawthorne wanted snow to symbolize cold, that's what I think. Cold and silence. Nothing quieter than snow. The sky screams to deliver it, a hundred banshees flying on the edge of the blizzard. But once the snow covers the ground, it hushes as still as my heart.

The snow drifts into our zombie mouths crawling with grease and curses and tobacco flakes and cavities and boyfriend/girlfriend juice, the stain of lies. For one moment we are bot failed tests and broken condoms and cheating on essays; we are crayons and lunch boxes and swinging so high our sneakers punch holes in the clouds. For one breath everything feels better.

Ci tenevamo per mano mentre percorrevamo il sentiero di pan di zenzero dentro la foresta, col sangue che ci gocciolava dalle dita. Danzavamo con le streghe e baciavamo i mostri. Ci trasformammo in ragazze d'inverno e, quando lei cercò di andar via, la spinsi di nuovo nella neve perché avevo paura di restare da sola.

We turned us into wintergirls, and when she tried to leave, I pulled her back into the snow because I was afraid to be alone

Frost in January minus 20 for a week. Dead birds frozen on the branch—they fall with the first thaw like ripe fruit—death-ripened. We shall all end like them—just a stain in the snow.

In the great quietness of these winter evenings there is one clock: the sea. Its dim momentum in the mind is the fugue upon which this writing is made. Empty cadences of sea-water licking its own wounds, sulking along the mouths of the delta, boiling upon those deserted beaches– empty, forever empty under the gulls: white scribble on the grey, munched by clouds.

The slither of tyres across the waves of the desert under a sky blue and frost-bound in winter; or in summer a fearful lunar bombardment which turned the sea to phosphorus — bodies shining like tin, crushed in electric bubbles; or walking to the last spit of sand near Montaza, sneaking through the dense green darkness of the King's gardens, past the drowsy sentry, to where the force of the sea was suddenly crippled and the waves hobbled over the sand-bar. Or

Melancholy were the sounds on a winter's night.

Anyone who has lived through an English winter can see the point of building Stonehenge to make the Sun come back.

The Snow White the midnight the moon tales of the mechanics

You daughter is prudish?" There was a gleam of triumph in Helena Winter's face. Fee grimaced. Prudish? No, not that she could claim. Far too mild a word for what she felt.

I shall smile when wreaths of snow Blossom where the rose should grow.

A smile is the same as sunshine; it banishes winter from the human countenance.

Winter sunshine is a fairy wand touching everything with a strange magic. It is like the smile of a friend in time of sorrow.

Where has thou been all the dumb winter days When neither sunlight was nor smile of flowers, Neither life, nor love, nor frolic, Only expanse melancholic, With never a note of thy exhilarating lays?

It's cold out there, colder than a ticket taker's smile at the Ivar Theatre on a Saturday night.

I don't really know that this story has a whole lot of things happen in it. It doesn't really. It's just a record of how things were in my life during this last winter. I guess things happened, but nothing out of the ordinary.

The world was once haunted by Titus Oates's self-made epitaph: "I am going outside and may be some time. Well, we are going inside and may be some time, we are inside, and have been for awhile. The poetry of courage is replaced by the poetry of confinement, the art of the endless open channel overtaken by the art of the perpetually retold tale. Our successful withdrawal from the risks of winter makes for a lessening of its intensities. We have all gone inside, and may be some time.

Though our setting for all these essays has been winter, our true subject has been time. We share a sense of timeless winter, of eternal winter as the place where time stands still, the poles as places permanently outside of our dailiness, the snow as nature's secret…we could lose the polar icecaps but would not stop hearing winter music.