Quotes About Snow

There are such days before the spring: When meadows rest beneath the snow, And dry and cheerful branches swing When gentle warm winds blow. You marvel at your body's lightness And do not recognize your home, And sing again with new excitement The song that once seemed tiresome.

How can you look at Nieva, How can on the bridges you rise? With a reason I'm sad since the time You appeared before my eyes. Sharp are black angels' wings, The last judgment is coming soon, And raspberry fires, like roses, In the white snow bloom.

A thousand pretty ways we'll find To mock old Winter's starving reign; We'll bid the violets spring again, Bid rich poetic roses blow, Peeping agove his heaps of snow; We'll dress his withered cheeks in flowers, And on his smooth bald head Fantastic garlands bind.

Beautiful in the frost and mist-covered hills above the Dnieper, the life of the City hummed and steamed like a many-layered honeycomb. All day long smoke spiralled in ribbons up to the sky from innumerable chimney-pots. A haze floated over the streets, the packed snow creaked underfoot, houses towered to five, six and even seven storeys. By day their windows were black, while at night they shone in rows against the deep, dark blue sky . . .

Small, red, and upright he waited, gripping his new bookbag tight in one hand and touching a lucky penny inside his coat pocket with the other, while the first snows of winter floated down on his eyelashes and covered the branches around him and silenced all trace of the world.

It was the hour when snow goes blue and streetlights come on and a hare may pause on the tree line as still as a word in a book.

There are regular towns and irregular towns, there are wounded towns and sober towns and fiercely remembered towns, there are useless, but passionate towns that battle on, there are towns where the snow slides from the roofs of the houses with such force that victims are killed, but there are not empty towns (just empty scholars) and there is no regret. Now move along.

L'Amoral took the time not only to discuss the flower with him, but to show him others, such as a pan porcin, "white as snow," which had been sent to him from Italy, and a very beautiful double heparica of a "celestial blue.

The snow has quietness in it; no songs, no smells, no shouts or traffic. When I speak my own voice shocks me.

I am younger each year at the first snow. When I see it, suddenly, in the air, all little and white and moving; then I am in love again and very young and I believe everything." Anne Sexton, in a letter to W.D. Snodgrass (November 28, 1958)

She suffers according to the digits of my hate. I hear the filaments of alabaster. I would lie down with them and lift my madness off like a wig. I would lie outside in a room of wool and let the snow cover me. Paris white or flake white or argentine, all in the washbasin of my mouth, calling "Oh." I am empty. I am witless. Death is here. There is no other settlement.

I am unbalanced — but I am not mad with snow. I am mad the way young girls are mad, with an offering, an offering… I burn the way money burns.

It is snowing and death bugs me as stubborn as insomnia.

It snowed right before Jack stopped talking to Hazel, fluffy white flakes big enough to show their crystal architecture, like perfect geometric poems.

She's like snow in Russian, said Anna. Snow in the evening when the sun sets and it looks like Alpengluhen, you know? And if snow had a scent it would smell like that [the rose]....

She stood looking carefully at the labeled portraits Ursala had put up: Little Crow, Chief of the Santees, Geronimo, last of the Apaches, and Ursala's favorite, Big Foot, dying in the snow at Wounded Knee. Isn't that where the massacre was? asked Ellen. Yes. I'm going to go there when I'm grown up. To Wounded Knee. That seems sensible, said Ellen.

When we pulled out into the winter night and the real snow, our snow, began to stretch out beside us and twinkle against the windows, and the dim lights of small Wisconsin stations moved by, a sharp wild brace came suddenly into the air. That's my middle-west - not the wheat or the prairies or the lost Swede towns, but the thrilling returning trains of my youth and the street lamps and sleigh bells in the frosty dark and the shadows of holly wreaths thrown by lighted windows on the snow.

On either side the fields were beneficently tranquil; the space through which the cavalcade moved was high and limitless. In the country there was less noise as though they were all listening atavistically for wolves in the wide snow.

koe nakaba / sagi koso yuki no / hitotsurane4 If only noiseless they would go, The herons flying by Were but a line of snow Across the sky CHP

A neve poz uma toalha empuxada na mesa de tudo.

As She Passes When I am sitting at the window, Through the panes, which the snow blurs, I see the lovely images, hers, as She passes ... passes ... passes by ... Over me grief has thrown its veil:- Less a creature in this world And one more angel in the sky. When I am sitting at the window, Through the panes, which the snow blurs, I think I see the image, hers, That's not now passing ... not passing by ...

As I in hoary winter night stood shivering in the snow,Surprised was I with sudden heat which made my heart to glow;And lifting up a fearful eye to view what fire was nearA pretty Babe all burning bright did in the air appear.

He would keep what he would always believe had to be a false memory of her falling like a booted Icarus out of a lighted sky in which there was somehow falling snow and her mouth open in a lovely O that had started to shape a word, and her long legs against the electric light, shooting out of the blue plastic square that rose like a kite lifting on a whirlwind and one of her boots flying what seemed the length of the block

How small life is here and how big nothingness. The sky, tired of light, has given everything to the snow. The two trees bow their heads to each other. Clouds cross the world's silence in a circle dance