Quotes About Winter

I love Toronto's long autumns, warm with windy swirls of golden spores, redolent with giant, sun-roasted leaves flapping up and down the streets, and horrible winter always seeming far, far off!

There must be some nerve and heroism in our love, as of a winter morning.

Winter is the reason for the spring; he who loves the spring must also love its reason!

A year in Vermont, according to an old saw, is nine months of winter followed by three months of very poor sledding.

The nineteenth century was already a chilly time. For two hundred years Europe and North America in particular had experienced a Little Ice Age, as it has become known, which permitted all kinds of wintry events—frost fairs on the Thames, ice-skating races along Dutch canals—that are mostly impossible now.

Every tree wore a thick cloak of white, every stump and boulder a jaunty snowy cap, and there was that perfect, immense stillness that you get nowhere else but in a big woods after a heavy snowfall.

The wind's on the wold And the night is a-cold, And Thames runs chill Twixt mead and hill, But kind and dear Is the old house here, And my heart is warm Midst winter's harm …

Blustery cold days should be spend propped up in bed with a mug of hot chocolate and a pile of comic books.

Oh lovely snowball, packed with care, smack a head that's unaware! Then with freezing ice to spare, melt and soak through underwear! Fly straight and true, hit hard and square! This, oh snowball, is my prayer. I only throw consecrated snowballs.

I like these cold, gray winter days. Days like these let you savor a bad mood.

Now the wintertime is coming The windows are filled with frost I went to tell everybody But I could not get across Well, I wanna be your lover, baby I don't wanna be your boss Don't say I never warned you When your train gets lost.

Winter had long since come. It was freezing cold. Torn-up sounds and forms appeared with no evident connection from the frosty mist, stood, moved, vanished. Not the sun we are accustomed to on earth, but the crimson ball of some other substitute sun hung in the forest. From it, strainedly and slowly, as in a dream or a fairy tale, rays of amber yellow light, thick as honey, spread and on their way congealed in the air and froze to the trees.

And while one early morning, I, Behind the desk, delayed each sentence, The winter came and passed me by With some unrecognized resemblance.

Every man and woman present thought how the neatly drawn lines and words upon the maps were in truth ice-covered pools and rivers, silent woods, frozen ditches and high, bare hills and every one of them thought how many sheep and cattle and wild creatures died in this season.

I could feel the winter shaking my bones and banging my teeth together.

The tulips are too excitable; it is winter here Look at how white everything is, how quiet, how snowed in I am learning peacefulness, lying by myself quietly As light lies on these white walls, this bed, these hands I am nobody, I have nothing to do with explosions I have given my name and my dayclothes to the nurses, and my history to the anesthetist, and my body to the surgeons

It was the day after Christmas and a gray sky bellied over us, fat with snow. I felt overstuffed and dull and disappointed, the way I always do the day after Christmas, as if whatever it was the pine boughs and the candles and the silver and gilt-ribboned presents and the birch-log fires and the Christmas turkey and the carols at the piano promised never came to pass.

Hastanenin arazisi yeni yaÄŸm?? karla örtülüydü -bu bir Noel serpintisi deÄŸil, ocak ay?n?n adam boyu kar?yd?, okullar?, iÅŸ yerlerini, kiliseleri kapatt?r?p bir gün boyunca ya da daha uzun süreyle not ve randevu defterlerinin, masa takvimlerinin üstünde bomboÅŸ, tertemiz bir sayfa b?rakan türden bir kar.

A wi?c teraz b?d? rozmawia? ka?dej nocy. Z sob? sam?. Z ksi??ycem. B?d? chodzi?, tak jak dzi?, zazdro?nie strzeg?c swojej samotno?ci, w niebieskosrebrnej po?wiacie zimnego ksi??yca, migocz?cej cudownie na zaspach ?wie?ego ?niegu miriad? iskierek.

Winter is for women — The woman, still at her knitting, At the cradle of Spanish walnut, Her body a bulb in the cold and too dumb to think. Will the hive survive, will the gladiolas Succeed in banking their fires To enter another year? What will they taste of, the Christmas roses? The bees are flying. They taste the spring. — Sylvia Plath, from "Wintering," Ariel . (Harper & Row 1966)

Endure, endure, and the syllables harden like stoic white sheets struck with rigor mortis on the clothesline of winter.

bare trees with black clots of rookeries

Noticed rooks squatting black in snowwhite fen, gray skies, black trees, mallard-green water.

The husk of a man in the woods below me bled into a creek that fed into a river that sparkled gaily in the winter sun.