Quotes About Winter

You think of outside your room, of the streets of the town, the lonely little squares over by the station, of those winter Saturdays all alike.

The founding of libraries was like constructing more public granaries, amassing reserves against a spiritual winter which by certain signs, in spite of myself, I see ahead…

Fondare biblioteche è un pò come costruire ancora granai pubblici: ammassare riserve contro l'inverno dello spirito che da molti indizi, mio malgrado, vedo venire.

There are certain winter days when bed and bath seem to be the only two tolerable places in the world.

As it somehow always manages before the winter solstice, but never after, the early darkness was cheerful and promising, even for those who had nothing.

They got up steam and proceeded calmly to the north - where there seemed to be no people, but only mountains, lakes, reedy snow-filled steppes, and winter gods who played with storms and stars.

The abandoned stars were hers for the many rich hours of sparkling winter nights, and, unattended, she took them in like lovers.

It snowed. It snowed all yesterday and never emptied the sky, although the clouds looked so low and heavy they might drop all at once with a thud.

I have seen those faces, when the day is cloudy, and I have seen at sunset on a clear winter day houses, ordinary houses, whose bricks were coals and windows aflame

A flip dark chill winter bastard though dry

Even the formal measure of the Seasons seemed suspended in the wintry silence.

That winter, however, was especially severe, and the cold of the last ten days of December was more felt, I think, in Paris than in any part of England. It may, indeed, be doubted whether there is any town in any country in which thoroughly bad weather is more afflicting than in the French capital. Snow and hail seem to be colder there, and fires certainly are less warm, than in London.

Grief is another world. Like the carnal world, it is one where reason doesn't work. Logically, I knew that the person I'd lost was not fully formed, that he was the possibility of a person. But without him I was gutted. If my baby could not somehow be returned to me, nothing would ever be right again. This bitter winter would go on forever.

They would never know how lucky they had been. For a lifetime, mankind had achieved as much happiness as any race can ever know. It had been the Golden Age. But gold was also the color of sunset, of autumn: and only Karellen's ears could catch the first wailings of the winter storms.

Be cool, my fevered brain. And it wouldn't hurt you, body, to take a tumble in the snow.

I'm only human. A house without a woman is no house …' It did as much good as last winter's snow, of course.

There was still the dirty snow, piles of it that looked like they were rotting, stained black, peppered with garbage. The white powder that loosed itself from the sky in small handfuls, like plaster falling from a ceiling, never managed to cover up the filth.

Winter is not a season in the North Middlewest; it is an industry.

It had been cold in Vermont, with early snow, but the white drifts lay to the earth so quietly, in unstained air, that the world seemed a silver-painted carnival, left to silence. Even on a moonless night, a pale radiance came from the snow, from the earth itself, and the stars were drops of quicksilver.

He wandered to the window. In that blast of snow, the shaft of the Plymouth National Bank Building was aspiring as a cathedral; twenty gray stories, with unbroken vertical lines swooping up beyond his vision into the snowy fog. It had nobility, but it seemed cruel, as lone and contemptuous of friendly human efforts as a forgotten tower on the Siberian steppes. How indifferently it would watch him starve and freeze!

My aunt grows special rhubarb in dark sheds. They keep it dark and warm all winter and harvest it by candlelight and it's the best stuff. She sells it for a fortune, btw.

It hasn't snowed like this for years. Real, proper snow. Dickensian snow

Moment by moment, in life's winter life frozeEchoing a history of blues, a milestone rose

It was the winter wildWhile the Heav'n-born childAll meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies.