Quotes About Winter

I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.

Winter kept us warm, covering Earth in forgetful snow

In spite of all the dishonour, the broken standards, the broken lives, The broken faith in one place or another, There was something left that was more than the tales Of old men on winter evenings.

Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing Memory and desire, stirring Dull roots with spring rain. Winter kept us warm, covering Earth in forgetful snow, feeding A little life with dried tubers.

Unreal City, Under the brown fog of a winter dawn, A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many, I had not thought death had undone so many.

for history is a pattern Of timeless moments. So, while the light fails On a winter's afternoon, in a secluded chapel History is now and England.

These are the ones that suffer least: The aconite under the snow And the snowdrop crying for a moment in the wood.

As solemn music played, vying with the harsh wind to be heard, the thought came to many of those who watched that although Sesuad'ra's defenders had won an improbable and heroic victory, they had paid dearly for it. The fact that they had defeated only the tiniest portion of the forces arrayed against them, and had lost nearly half their number in doing so, made the winter-shrouded hillcrest seem an even colder and lonelier place.

He hated this time of year. Every day was shorter than the last. Night began to fall in late afternoon. Winter could arrive on any given day and stay until April. They had had an ice storm on Halloween and a blizzard on Veterans Day, followed by three days of rain that had caused flash flooding in low-lying areas. The odd day of stunning, electric blue skies and a paltry few lingering fall colors couldn't make up for the stretches of bleak gray or the damp cold that knifed to the bone.

He met Roilant's gaze with two eyes more clear than the clearest winter sea, and rather colder.

Heavenly streams poured down, piercing the snow. It looked like someone had punctured it and blackened it with stone nails. The earth showed through in some places. Last year's rubbish surfaced on all the streets, in all the yards.

Mrs. Stubbs let out a grumble and muttered, "It's very cold." "Of course it is," Ellie replied. "It's ice.

The stone basin was crusted with ice now. The courtyard security light illuminated its depths, and as he leaned over it he could make out the fiery glints of goldfish beneath the surface. There, beneath the cover of the ice, their flickering lives went on. He wanted to know how they did it, how they withstood the slowing of their hearts, the chilling of their blood, through the long darkness of winter.

Cuando me cuenta de que estaba vestido de blanco en pleno invierno me pregunté si soñaba. Esto no es un modo de decir, cuando veo algo raro siempre me pregunto con todas las letras si estoy soñando.

Cuando me di cuenta de que estaba vestido de blanco en pleno invierno me pregunté si soñaba. Esto no es un modo de decir, cuando veo algo raro siempre me pregunto con todas las letras si estoy soñando.

Freezing out," she said. She had her gloves in one hand like a crumpled bouquet.

Mami looked vaguely out of the snout of her parka

He felt not surprise or even regret but, rather, a deep and sudden gratitude and, with it, a force of clarity, filling him like a breath of winter air. He wondered what this feeling was and then he knew. He was giving her up.

We find Tankawosho breaking up a wooden statue of Buddha on a wintry day to make a fire. 'What sacrilege!' said the horror-stricken bystander. 'I wish to get the Shali out of the ashes,' calmly rejoined the Zen. 'But you certainly will not get Shali from this image!' was the angry retort, to which Tanka replied, 'If I do not, this is certainly not a Buddha and I am committing no sacrilege.' Then he turned to warm himself over the kindling fire.

My ex calls the ochre winter 'autumn' as we queue to hear dock boys play jazz fugues in velvet dark.— Broken Verses

There is a lot to do in Cleveland. It's just those December, January, February months that are tough. But there is a lot to do there.

Morning. Strawberry sky dusted with white winter powder sugar sun. And nobody to munch on it with

Though the body is its genesis, a poem is the vision of a process Out of ceaseless motion in edgeless space Carved in space, vision your poor eye's single armor against winter spring summer fall

It may be the coldest day of The year, what does he think of That? I mean, what do I? And if I do, Perhaps I am myself again.