Quotes About Winter

They worked in a hurry, for as every decent man who has taken part in a revolution knows very well - no matter who is in power - searches take place from 2.30 a.m. to 6.15 a.m. in winter and from midnight to 4 a.m. in summer.

When Love And Jealousy Collide On The Slopes, Winter Break Turns Deadly

She tells her love while half asleep, In the dark hours, With half-words whispered low: As Earth stirs in her winter sleep And puts out grass and flowers Despite the snow, Despite the falling snow.

Although I love snow, it messes things up terribly around Seattle, with all of our hills. I worry about my loved ones driving.

Do your heart and head keep pace? When does hoary Love expire, When do frosts put out the fire? Can its embers burn below All that chill December snow?

I like cold. I really like to go to cold towns. I love gray. I love winter.

Your hair is winter fire, January embers.My heart burns there, too.-Stephen King, IT

stepping forth to replenish it, for now the snow came in flying sweeps

Colder than the winter wind howling its dirge through the Southwest Forest. Colder than the snow blanketing tree, rock and earth in its silent shroud. Colder than ice that lay on water and hung in shards from branches and bushes. Colder than these was the smile of Ferahgo the Assassin!

I close my eyes.. think of how beautiful it would be if someone came to find me.. if I froze in the snow with angel wings pressed into the ground.. my lips a pretty purple-blue.. my eyelids pink and my skin pale.. how beautiful they would say I was.. how perfect.

Is he dead? [Hero Devlin] Alexi knelt in the snow beside the still body. Not yet. But he will be soon. Hero sucked in a deep breath tainted with the stench of fresh blood and burning fur. Good. Alexi looked up at her. Your muff is on fire. Drat, said Hero, dropping the flaming fur into the melting snow. I just purchased it.

In Yellowstone, where ravens have dotted their black exclamation points onto the white pages of the snows of many thousands of winters

Life that winter in Rome: a golden dream, and I don't mean Rafaello and the mimosa and the total freedom of life. Stop there: What I do mean is the total freedom of life and Rafaello and the mimosa and the letto matrimoniale and the Frascati when morning work was over.

Winter was coming; the

It didn't look like the kind of snow that whispers down gently in the pit of the night and in the morning turns the landscape into a glittering wonderland of uncommon and ethereal beauty. It looked like the kind of snow that intends to make the world as bloody cold as possible.

Even the pious Scots, locked throughout history in a long-drawn-out battle with their arch-enemies the Scots, managed a few burnings to while away the long winter evenings.

It is winter. Ravens are standing on a pile of bones -- black typeface on white paper picking an idea clean. It's what I do each time I sit down to write. What else are we to do with our obsessions? Do they feed us? Or are we simply scavenging our memories for one gleaming image to tell the truth of what is hunting us? 'To write,' Marguerite Duras remarked, 'is also not to speak. It is to keep silent. It is to howl noiselessly.

But roses! Even through winter they persisted, bare and thorny, like angry old women crouched in the cold.

And so another miserable, black and weary night. And then another miserable gray and wintry morning.

We used to fly past shoppers in the town centre and especially in the winter, wrapped up in our duffle coats, woolen hats and scarves we used to get so warm that there would soon be coats unbuttoned, scarves trailing behind and rosy cheeks by the time we got to school.

Tis a sad day when ye ha' t' pinch yerself t' see if ye're awake or in th' midst o' a night terror. 'Tis a really sad day when ye have t' pinch yerself twice." Old woman Nora to her three wee granddaughters on a cold winter's night

Last I was here, Winter was a desolate, iced landscape with drift blasting across the terrain, fogging the air white, tumbles of stone and ice and statues barely visible. Today it's clear, if not sunny. Sun doesn't exist in Winter; there lurks only an intermittently glimpsed frost-bitten orb of wan blue.

Yet only abominations stalk, shamble, hulk, and scrabble through the Winter courtyard, most missing limbs, some split wide open like overripe, weeping plums, others turned inside out, wearing entrails for skin, blind eyes, deaf ears, and silenced mouths cocooned within, lying in raw, oozing heaps on the ground.

The kingdom of Winter is a diamond-crusted study of beautiful cruelties, lovely and inimically dangerous, for each alluring facet contains a hidden weapon or terror. It's brutally cold—we ice where we stand—so I adjust our body temperatures by erecting a slice of warmer climate around us, and ice sloughs off us in great, melting sheets.