Quotes About Snow

Snow and adolescence are the only problems that disappear if you ignore them long enough.

How strange a thing is death, bringing to his knees, bringing to his antlersThe buck in the snow…Life, looking out attentive from the eyes of the doe.

Along my body, waking while I sleep, Sharp to the kiss, cold to the hand as snow, The scar of this encounter like a sword

Sing hey! Sing hey! For Christmas Day; Twine mistletoe and holly. For a friendship glows In winter snows, And so let's all be jolly!

Purge me with hyssop, and I shall be clean: wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow.

As though pure white snow flashed and sparkled with the color of bright ruddy wine, and was overcome by this radiance.

There's no waiting for friends on a powder day.

Snow: a form of precipitation that usually occurs three weeks prior to and the morning of your departure from your ski vacation.

The north wind doth blow,And we shall have snow,And what will poor robin do then,Poor thing? He'll sit in a barn,To keep himself warm,And hide his head under his wing,Poor thing!

Marie-Laure smiles, and he laughs a pure, contagious laugh, one she will try to remember all her life, father and daughter turning in circles on the sidewalk in front of their apartment house, laughing together while snow sifts through the branches above.

It is not so much the science of snow for me, anymore. I'd rather just look at it. The light, the way it absorbs sound. The way we feel as if the more that falls, the more we are forgiven.

The days lengthen and the library roof drips and the big ponderosas standing over the cabin unload snow with great whumps that sound to the boy like Hermes plunging in his golden sandals down from Olympus on another errand from the gods.

One step behind her, her father tilts his head up and gives the sky a huge smile. Marie-Laure knows this even though her back is to him, even though he says nothing, even though she is blind - Papa's thick wet hair is wet from the snow and standing in a dozen angles off his head, and his scarf is draped asymmetrically over his shoulders, and he's beaming up at the falling snow (41).

December sucks the light from the castle. The sun hardly clears the horizon before sinking away. Snow falls once, twice, then stays locked over the lawns.

Volkheimer's eyes open as wide as they can. Straining the blackness for every stray photon. A single piano runs up scales. Then back down. He listens to the notes and the silences between them, and then finds himself leading horses through a forest at dawn, trudging through snow behind his great-grandfather, who walks with a saw draped over his huge shoulders, the snow squeaking beneath boots and hooves, all the trees above them whispering and creaking.

Now it was dark. The airplane descended over Chicago, its galaxy of electric lights, the vast neighborhoods coming clearer as the plane glided toward the airport--streetlights, headlights, stacks of buildings, ice rinks, a truck turning at a stoplight, scraps of snow atop a warehouse and winking antennae on faraway hills, finally the long converging parallels of blue runway lights, and they were down.

But he was afraid to speak. He could see that speaking would be like dashing some very fragile bond to pieces, like kicking a dandelion gone to seed; the wispy, tenuous sphere of its body would scatter in the wind. So instead they stood together, the snow fluttering down from the clouds to melt into the water where their own reflected images trembled like two people trapped against the glass of a parallel world, and he reached, finally, to take her hand.

There must be some definite cause why, whenever snow begins to fall, its initial formation invariably displays the shape of a six-cornered starlet. For if it happens by chance, why do they not fall just as well with five corners or with seven? . . . Who carved the nucleus, before it fell, into six horns of ice? —From "On the Six-Cornered Snowflake," by Johannes Kepler, 1610

His mother the Ice Queen. The only thing he still had of hers was a book: Snow Crystals, by W. A. Bentley. Inside were thousands of carefully prepared micrographs of snowflakes, each image reproduced in a two-inch square, the crystals white against a field of black, arrayed in a grid, four-by-three, twelve per page.

I came from Canada, where it's freezing cold for seven months out of the year.

All around the dome lay hills mangy with melting snow which reflected mottled wet blueness from the small blue-white sun hanging at the meridian.

They can afford to smile because they all have teeth so dazzling if they dropped them in the snow they'd be lost forever.

Don't eat the yellow snow.

On both sides of them lay a dense forest of towering evergreens. Ice was forming along the banks, which in places were strewn with rugged boulders or rose in steep, rocky upthrusts. As the afternoon wore on, the wind grew stronger and more bitter. Dark clouds closed in from the northwest. René muttered, "The snow, she come soon, I think.