Quotes About Winter

June suns, you cannot store them To warm the winter's cold...

moonlit winter trees bare branches paint gray shadows ghostly risen roots

The autumn twilight turned into deep and early night as they walked. Tristran could smell the distant winter on the air—a mixture of night-mist and crisp darkness and the tang of fallen leaves.... the crescent moon hung white in the sky and the stars burned in the darkness above them.

Are the days of winter sunshine just as sad for you, too? When it is misty, in the evenings, and I am out walking by myself, it seems to me that the rain is falling through my heart and causing it to crumble into ruins.

Winter is the slow-down Winter is the search for self Winter gives the silence we need to listen Winter goes gray so we can see our own colors...

I hide myself in the quiet white of winter and nestle in her comforting folds of cold oblivion

Icicles: fossilized raindrops.

The earth tucked herself in for the year with winter's frosty white blanket of snow.

Winter is simple no clutter, no color a blanket of snow reminds us to rest

Winter is the gray, bare shell of spring.

...the ember and firesmoke shades of winter twilight...

Winter is on my head, and eternal spring is in my heart.

Earth tilts toward Winter my heart goes tilty too the summer-fever cools to a more reflective hue

In Winter, Mother Nature dims the lights, sleeps late, hides from the world, and regenerates. Winter is the hangover of seasons.

Winter is a white-gray paradise blunted of details — the simple season.

cold gray rainy day watching winter's last leaves fall from my cozy bed

Winter stars blaze in silent joy.

Resist winter as you will — the cold will come.

If Candlemas Day be fair and bright, Winter will have another fight; But if Candlemas Day be clouds and rain, Winter is gone, and will not come again.

Muse, bid the morne awake; Sad winter now declines: Each bird doth choose a mate, This day's Saint Valentines...

it is better to taste of frost— the exquisite frost— than of wadding and of dead grass.

The hush comes with the deepening of Autumn; but it comes gradually. Our ears are attuned to it, day by quieter day. But even now, if one awakens in the deep darkness of the small hours, one can hear it, a foretaste of Winter silence. It's a little painful now, and a little lonely because it is so strange.

A snowdrift is a beautiful thing-if it doesn't lie across the path you have to shovel or block the road that leads to your destination.

One boy's footprints are not long in being lost in the snow, in the steadily falling snow of the shortest day, the longest night; they are lost as soon as they are made. And once again the heath is clothed in drifting white. And there is no ghost, save the one ghost that lives in the heart of a motherless boy, till his footprints disappear.