Quotes About Winter

Winter does not work only on a broad scale; he is careful in trifles.

She thought little of her ordeal. Cruelty was part of nature, like a winter frost; something to be survived and then forgotten (p.689)

Going to the outhouse was an ordeal, a wade through shoulder-high drifts, forced to dig to make forward progress.

While I relish our warm months, winter forms our character and brings out our best.

The oil sequence was about two or three days. It was very cold and was snowing.

It was winter, and a night of bitter cold. The snow lay thick upon the ground, and upon the branches of the trees: the frost kept snapping the little twigs on either side of them, as they passed: and when they came to the Mountain-Torrent she was hanging motionless in air, for the Ice-King had kissed her.

He is some brainless beautiful creature who should be always here in winter when we have no flowers to look at, and always here in summer when we want something to chill our intelligence.

He did not hate the Winter now, for he knew that it was merely the Spring asleep, and that the flowers were resting.

Your dad would stake me out to freeze if I let you fall and hurt yourself. He offered me his arm, which I latched onto gratefully. He wouldn't stake you out, I panted as we forced our way through the hard top layer of snow that was almost thigh deep. He'd just shoot you. Well that's a comfort.

He was the sort of man who would have tried to cheer Napoleon up by talking about the Winter Sports at Moscow.

Cold is the ogre that drives all beautiful things into hiding

Cuando estamos lejos de la patria nunca la recordamos en sus inviernos. La distancia borra las penas del invierno, las poblaciones desamparadas, los niños descalzos en el frío. El arte del recuerdo sólo nos trae campiñas verdes, flores amarillas y rojas, el cielo azulado del himno nacional.

Along the Chilean coast, with cold and winter, when rain falls washing the weeks. Listen: solitude becomes music once more, and it seems its appearance is that of air, of rain, that time, something with wave and wings, passes by, grows. And the harp awakes from oblivion.

Longing that sliced my breast into pieces, it is time to take another road, on which she does not smile. Storm that buried the bells, muddy swirl of torments, why touch her now, why make her sad. Oh to follow the road that leads away from everything, without anguish, death, winter waiting along it with their eyes open through the dew.

Y es esta la moral de mi Oda: Dos veces es belleza la belleza, y lo que es bueno es doblemente bueno, cuando se trata de dos calcetines de lana en el invierno.

Ah, izlemeli her ÅŸeyden uzaklaÅŸan yolu, kesmediÄŸi yolu yürek daralmas?n?n, ölümün, k???n, çiyler aras?nda aç?lan gözleriyle.

Ah! suivre le chemin qui s'éloigne de tout, que ne fermeront pas la mort, l'hiver, l'angoisse avec leurs yeux ouverts au coeur de la rosée

The winters will drive you crazy until you learn to get out into them.

it had been a winter of deadening seriousness, when all the illusions and bright dreams of my early twenties had withered and died. I did not yet have the interior resources to dream new dreams; I was far too busy mourning the death of the old ones and wondering how I was to survive without them. I was sure I could replace them somehow , but was not sure I could restore their brassy luster or dazzling impress .

Happiness is an accident of nature, a beautiful and flawless aberration, like an albino. LIke the albino it has no protective coloration. White. That is the color. Those placid, untroubled winter months are different shades of white in my memory, unsullied, and pure. But nature in the temperate zones is bitter towards all things white.

Before the snow could melt for good, an ice storm covered the lowcountry and we learned the deeper treachery of ice. At night, we could hear the disconsolate sounds of trees breaking under the weight of their glistening unnatural burden. Limbs broke with a terrifying violence, like the snapping of healthy bones.

The house was still as northern woods in winter, when all the creatures are gone.

Winds shook me apart piecemeal, flung a bone here, a bone there. My eyes became snow, my hair turned to ice; I heard it chime against my shoulders like wind-blown glass. If I spoke, words would fall from me like snow, pour out of me like black wind.

he felt the snow, downward groping of tree roots.