Quotes About Winter

But he was wounded, and tired, and winter was still upon him.

I prefer winter and fall, when you feel the bone structure of the landscape—the loneliness of it, the dead feeling of winter. Something waits beneath it, the whole story doesn't show. —Andrew Wyeth (1917

Quayle himself was a surprisingly elegant man of sixty winters or more. (One might equally have said "sixty springs" or "sixty summers," but that would have been inaccurate, for Quayle was a man of bare trees and frozen water.)

Two evils, monstrous either one apart,Possessed me, and were long and loath at going:A cry of Absence, Absence, in the heart,And in the wood the furious winter blowing.

He took his furred hat from its peg and drew on his gloves.

By noon, in a gray February world, we had come down through snow flurries to land at Albany, and had taken off again. When the snow ended the sky was a luminous gray. I looked down at the winter calligraphy of upstate New York, white fields marked off by the black woodlots, an etching without color, superbly restful in contrast to the smoky, guttering, grinding stink of the airplane clattering across the sky like an old commuter bus.

Into the winter's gray delight, Into the summer's golden dream, Holy and high and impartial, Death, the mother of Life, Mingles all men for ever.

Come, fill the Cup, and in the fire of SpringThe Winter garment of Repentance fling:The Bird of Time has but a little wayTo fly—and Lo! the Bird is on the Wing.

When awful darkness and silence reignOver the great Gromboolian plain,Through the long, long wintry nights.

The elflocks of the crowd were every color of the rainbow, as was the light from their eyes that shone through the mask of the Arkadian winter night. Some of them had wings, but not gauzy gossamer tattooist fabulosities. The wing'd ones among them bore twin sails at their backs, reptilian bat bones folded and hooded just above their heads in taloned, Gothic arches of epidermis.

The Winter's cheek flushed as if he had drained Spring, Summer, and Autumn at a draught...

Over the land freckled with snow half-thawed The speculating rooks at their nests cawed And saw from elm-tops, delicate as flowers of grass, What we below could not see, Winter pass.

The "dead of winter" ----- how much more dead it would be each year without the birds!

On the roughest days of winter, when life seems overwhelmed by storm and cold, watch a chickadee, observe in good cheer and take heart.

Það er alltaf einhver sem þarf á hjálp að halda. Það er alltaf einhver úti í kuldanum, einhver að leita að hendi í snjónum.

At the beginning of every winter people are careful to install storm windows. These extra panes of glass protect their houses against the bitter winds. We do something very similar to protect our minds through the practice of meditation.

I couldn't resist; we drove to Argentario. I was dazed by love. We spent marvellous days devoted to the winter sea and, as had never happened with either Franco or, even less, Pietro, to the pleasure of eating and drinking, conversation, sex.

And right away here comes a whole concrete wall of snow, this popular, but inconspicuous (once arrived, it simply lies around everywhere) piece of sports equipment that falls down to earth around the clock and no one, apart from the athletes, really pays attention, unless they haven't got winter tires fitted yet. And this snow is suddenly like stone, like concrete, which has a stomach ache and thus must empty itself over everything.

When snow falls, nature listens.

Country acquaintances are charming only in the country and only in the summer. In the city in winter they lose half of their appeal.

And the snow that fell onto the roof in winter... it fell softly... softly... and it covered the house, the armchair, the books, the children's voices. It covered Anna and Abel, covered their parallel world, and everything was finally, very, very quiet.

Abel was brushing the snow off his parka while Micha was dancing around him, still balancing the plate of cookies, singing, 'We're staying, we're staying, we're staying overnight! We're drying! We're drying! We're drying on the line!

Es mediodía. Un parque. Invierno. Blancas sendas; simétricos montículos y ramas esqueléticas.   Bajo el invernadero, naranjos en maceta, y en su tonel, pintado de verde, la palmera.

Una tarde parda y fría de invierno. Los colegiales estudian. Monotonía de la lluvia en los cristales.