Quotes About Snow

The first slips of snow white unlined paper, six inches by four, and covered with William Minor's neat, elaborately cursive, and so distinctively American handwriting in greenish black ink, began to drift out from the Broadmoor post room in the spring of 1885.

Winter is not a season in the North Middlewest; it is an industry.

It had been cold in Vermont, with early snow, but the white drifts lay to the earth so quietly, in unstained air, that the world seemed a silver-painted carnival, left to silence. Even on a moonless night, a pale radiance came from the snow, from the earth itself, and the stars were drops of quicksilver.

Multe minuni sunt pe lume dar nici una ca inima omului minunat?, el omul care pluteÈ™te dincolo de marea înz?pezit? È™i str?bate dus de vânturile aduc?toare de furtuni ale sudului.

It hasn't snowed like this for years. Real, proper snow. Dickensian snow

Growing up in Northern California, I've only seen snow at Christmas maybe twice in my life! I was always jealous of my cousins on the East Coast with their white Christmases.

We need to put your sister in a glass case like Snow White," Colonel Hamilton said, his arms crossed. He was monitoring the radio chatter from the deck of a gunboat. "With a sign on it that says 'Break in the event of a zombie apocalypse.'

Sunshine is delicious, rain is refreshing, wind braces up, and snow is exhilarating; there is no such thing as bad weather, only different kinds of good weather.

Sunshine is delicious, rain is refreshing, wind braces us up, snow is exhilarating; there is really no such thing as bad weather, only different kinds of good weather.

I love when it snows it slows everything down.

It was the nose of a champion still, and wind and dark and snow could not prevail against it – there was a grouse in the brush heap.

When Christmas bells are swinging above the fields of snow, we hear sweet voices ringing from lands of long ago, and etched on vacant places are half-forgotten faces of friends we used to cherish, and loves we used to know.

Let the fairy tale begin on a winter's morning, then, with one drop of blood newly-fallen on the ivory snow: a drop as bright as a clear-cut ruby, red as a single spot of claret on the lace cuff.

Christmas in L.A. is weird. There's no snow. It's not even cold.

There was just a thin fall of powdery snow in the air. It came onto their hats, not seeming to fall as much as to suddenly appear with its chill greeting on lips and noses.

Just after the death of the flowers, And before they are buried in snow, There comes a festival season, When nature is all aglow— Aglow with a mystical spendour That rivals the brightness of spring, Aglow with a beauty more tender Than aught which fair summer could bring....

We trust in plumed procession For such the angels go - Rank after Rank, with even feet - And uniforms of Snow.

Besides the autumn poets sing, A few prosaic days A little this side of the snow And that side of the haze... Grand me, O Lord, a sunny mind, Thy windy will to bear!

...I shall smile when wreaths of snow Blossom where the rose should grow...

Each household gathered in its chimney-corner, in houses carefully closed from the outer air, and well supplied with biscuit, melted butter, dried fish, and other provisions laid in for the seven-months winter. The very smoke of these dwellings was hardly seen, half-hidden as they were beneath the snow, against the weight of which they were protected by long planks reaching from the roof and fastened at some distance to solid blocks on the ground, forming a covered way around each building.

We are ice and snow, we are that trapped state. We are water falling, itinerant and vague, ever seeking the lowest level, trying to collect and connect. We are vapor, raised against our own devices, made nebulous, blown on whatever wind arises. To start again, glacial or not.

was promising to be a white-out Christmas with all the overheated warnings from the television news about "sheltering in place" and whatever other nonsense phrases they were using to convey to the public that it was going to snow quite a bit overnight.

Sous la neige, combien de graines cachées attendent le printemps ?

When the snow falls with that supernatural slowness it has, it seems that the reasons for dying are more subtle than the reasons for living. But perhaps these latter are more numerous.