Quotes About Winter

Sighing, I invite the earth to suspend them indefinitely, freezing them in battle, many once again mutilated and deformed, as solidly as Winter's iced statues littering the grounds.

You are a poet, sycamore, A minor poet. You are not much good in a practical world; You shed your ragged leaves early, and clutter up the landscape. But you are lovely on winter evenings Against the afterglow-- Bare and pale and a little disdainful, But yourself.

It is always a poet's winter.

The bare branches were silvered with frost. The berries of the holly tree looked white with rime. Old Marie said that all holly berries had once been white, but that the crown of thorns had been made of holly, and the berries had turned red when touched with Jesus's blood. She had a story to explain everything, Old Marie.

The garden was the most beautiful place Margherita had ever seen. In spring, it was a sea of delicate blossom. In summer, it was green and fruitful. In autumn, the trees blazed gold and red and orange, as vivid as Margherita's hair. Even in winter, it was beautiful, with bare branches against the old stone walls and green hedges in curves and curlicues about beds of winter-flowering herbs and flowers.

But what Dakota most enjoyed about the beginning of winter was the crispness of the air (that practically demanded the wearing of knits) and the way that tough New Yorkers - on the street, in elevators, in subways - were suddenly willing to risk a smile. To make a connection with a stranger. To finally see one another after strenuously avoiding eye contact all year.

Please drop a note to the clerk of the weather, and have a good, rousing snow-storm -- say on the twenty-second. None of your meek, gentle, nonsensical, shilly-shallying snow-storms; not the sort where the flakes float lazily down from the sky as if they didn't care whether they ever got here or not, and then melt away as soon as they touch the earth, but a regular business-like whizzing, whirring, blurring, cutting snow-storm, warranted to freeze and stay on!

It was a nice day, and I don't mean that it was sunny either. It was humid and not too cool, like winter was getting annoyed with itself and wanted it to be spring just as much as everyone else.

Oh God, the relief felt like oxygen. The relief felt like getting off a plane, after a long winter and a turbulent flight, and finding yourself outside the airport in a tropical clime. The relief was so profound, I felt undone.

The pharmaceutical companies - those who profit from the misery of others - could have asked for no greater income-generating scenario than a cold, wet winter full of flue shots and NyQuil, followed by a hot spring and record-breaking pollen counts. (I believe that people were not so allergic to their environment until they began polluting themselves and their world with so many drugs and toxins. But then, nobody asked me.)

scents gossip of previous winters.

I hope the snow covers everything so all the footsteps are silenced, and the whole city can be at peace.

Their lives are no longer tied to the cycles of the seasons and the harvest, no longer do they need the Yule Lord to chase away the winter darkness and usher in the light of spring. Man has only himself to fear now . . . he has become his own worst devil.

Falling water has always been a healing balm when I find myself with a despairing mind and cracking soul. The winter rains of Puget Sound, which never start and stop but only drizzle on, signal the cool comfort of home.

Most active winter bugs can supercool their bodies to a range of–6 to–12 degrees Celsius, going lower by producing more glycerol and dropping the water content in their bodies.

He panned the streams for gold. Some winters he stayed with John Evans at Trevelin and swapped dirty nuggets for flour. He was a crack shot. He shot trout from the rivers; a cigarette packet from the police commissioner's mouth; and had the habit of picking off ladies' high-heels.

The house is eaten by cold. We hear its bones crack in the jaws of sub-zero.

During the period of the shortest, sleepy days of winter that are demarcated from morning and evening on both sides by furry edges of twilight, when the city branches out ever more deeply into the labyrinths of the winter nights and is summoned back by a brief dawn to reflection, to a return home, my father was already lost, sold, sworn to that other sphere.

In the winter, strangers are often shocked to see me wearing shorts.

It was a short, cold Christmas; and as the short northern day merged into night, we found ourselves almost broad upon the wintry ocean, whose freezing spray cased us in ice, as in polished armor.

But when he spoke, that great voice of his poured out of his chest in words like the snowflakes of winter, and then no other mortal could in debate contend with Odysseus. Nor did we care any longer how he looked.

Generations of men are like the leaves. In winter, winds blow them down to earth, but then, when spring season comes again, the budding wood grows more. And so with men: one generation grows, another dies away.

An officer who testified that he had served in naval intelligence was convicted of perjury, on the grounds that no such thing had ever existed. Rookie pilots were required to spend the day in fur-lined winter flight suits with helmets and gloves, scanning the horizon for icebergs using "binoculars" fashioned from a pair of Coke bottles.

I will never understand how so many young women can go out in the freezing cold wearing so little clothing.