Quotes About Winter

Jam on a winter took away the blue devils. It was like tasting summer.

There is a winter ahead such as I think we cannot imagine, but remember that spring always follows.

But I saw Blake earlier and he said he and Nate were taking off for an overnight business thing. So... ... you're just going to jump their fence and their pool, I finished for her. Silence. Then Jamie said, It's twenty-five degrees! In December! Do you know what this means? The apocalypse?

There was a guy roasting chestnuts on the street corner, and the smell wafted over, hinting at the coming Winter, but in a good way, in the way that makes you think about Christmas and snow days and fires crackling away in fireplaces.

This is the derivation of that old Yankee proverb that if you can sell a book, you can move sixty tons of weaponry three hundred miles in winter

I headed downtown right away. It was still early in the evening, glittering with electric, with ice; and trembling in the factories, those nearly all windows, over the prairies that had returned over demolitions with winter grass pricking the snow and thrashed and frozen together into beards by the wind. The cold simmer of the lake also, blue; the steady skating of rails too, down to the dark.

Hey... ¿no está fría? -Aunque sea la nieve del invierno deshecha, es más caliente que el corazón de los hombres...

spine as she sneaked a look down the forested slope. The Blue Ridge Mountains were sheathed in October's mellow gold, but the leaves were steadily raining down in the breeze as the forest braced for winter's sleep.

Scott Nicholson

You go forth with joy to gather flowers for your queen in winter, and grieve when you can find none, and cannot understand why they do not grow.

para mí los goces del espíritu consisten en un libro, en un hoja, en una página; sólo los libros pueden hacernos soportable y hasta deliciosa una larga noche de invierno, y hacernos llevar una dichosa vida que reanime todos nuestros miembros.

Like some winter animal the moon licks the salt of your hand, Yet still your hair foams violet as a lilac tree From which a small wood-owl calls.

Are ye the ghosts of fallen leaves, O flakes of snow, For which, through naked trees, the winds A-mourning go? Or are ye angels, bearing home The host unseen Of truant spirits, to be clad Again in green?

Winter, a lingering season, is a time to gather golden moments, embark upon a sentimental journey, and enjoy every idle hour.

Nature, --.... Her song of gratitude is sung by spring's awakening hours, Her summer offers at Thy shrine its earliest, loveliest flowers; Her autumn brings its ripened fruits, in glorious luxury given, While winter's silver heights reflect Thy brightness back to heaven!

The simplicity of winter has a deep moral. The return of Nature, after such a career of splendor and prodigality, to habits so simple and austere, is not lost either upon the head or the heart. It is the philosopher coming back from the banquet and the wine to a cup of water and a crust of bread.

The tendinous part of the mind, so to speak, is more developed in winter; the fleshy, in summer. I should say winter had given the bone and sinew to Literature, summer the tissues and blood.

[W]hat a severe yet master artist old Winter is.... No longer the canvas and the pigments, but the marble and the chisel.

All sounds are sharper in winter; the air transmits better. At night I hear more distinctly the steady roar of the North Mountain. In summer it is a sort of complacent purr, as the breezes stroke down its sides; but in winter always the same low, sullen growl.

The tendinous part of the mind, so to speak, is more developed in winter the fleshy, in summer. I should say winter had given the bone and sinew to literature, summer the tissues and the blood.

In winter the stars seem to have rekindled their fires, the moon achieves a fuller triumph, and the heavens wear a look of a more exalted simplicity.

It is the life of the crystal, the architect of the flake, the fire of the frost, the soul of the sunbeam. This crisp winter air is full of it.

Summer pleasures they are gone like to visions every oneAnd the cloudy days of autumn and of winter cometh onI tried to call them back but unbidden they are goneFar away from heart and eye and for ever far away

It was an overcast late November morning, the grass splintered by hoarfrost, and winter grinning through the gaps in the clouds like a bad clown peering through the curtains before the show begins.