Quotes About Snow

The mountains to the south stood blackly against a violet sky. The snow on the north slopes so pale. Like spaces left for messages.

I'm a fugitive from the ways of this world. I'd be a fugitive from my mind if I had me some snow.

Some time after midnight on the twenty-first of December it began to snow. By morning in the gray spectral light of a brief and obscure winter sun the fields lay deadwhite and touched with a phosphorous glow as if producing illumination of themselves, and the snow was still wisping down thickly, veiling the trees beyond the creek and the mountain itself, falling softly, and softly, faintly sounding in the immense white silence.

See the child. He is pale and thin, he wears a thin and ragged linen shirt. He stokes the scullery fire. Outside lie dark turned fields with rags of snow and darker woods beyond that harbor yet a few last wolves. His folk are known for hewers of wood and drawers of water but in truth his father has been a schoolmaster. He lies in drink, he quotes from poets whose names are now lost. The boy crouches by the fire and watches him.

The Hartliebs had no time for the snow. Outside their window, San Giorgio Maggiore seemed to be floating on the lagoon as if it had just surfaced there. The view was so beautiful that Victor felt his heart ache. Esther and her husband, however, stood side by side with their backs to the window.

Es schneite, als sie ans Seeufer ins Freie traten, und hinter ihnen verschwand die Burg zwischen den wirbelden Flecken, als löse sie sich auf in Weiß. Die Welt um sie her war so still, als hätte sie alle Worte aufgebraucht, als wäre nun alles erzählt, was es in dieser Welt zu erzählen gab.

White as snow, red as blood, black as ebony.... White, Red, and Black, He said, wiping the blade clean on his sleeve. Snow white colors. That's what my brother use to call them. He liked that story a lot. But who would have thought they had such power.

Long ago, on the wild and windy isle of Berk, a smallish Viking with a longish name stood up to his ankles in snow.

The day was gone, the twilight was gone, and the snow was invisible as I came down to the side of the lake. Only the moon, white and shining, was in the sky, like a woman glorying in her own loveliness as she loiters superbly to the gaze of all the world, looking sometimes through the fringe of dark olive leaves, sometimes looking at her own superb, quivering body, wholly naked in the water of the lake.

This morning of the small snow I count the blessings, the leak in the faucet which makes of the sink time, the drop of the water on water.

War The trembling finger of a woman Goes down the list of casualties On the evening of the first snow. The house is cold and the list is long. All our names are included.

As he looked around the huge ducal bed, he saw everything that meant the world to him. Outside the sky was darkening and the snow was falling. Through misty eyes, Matthew looked up, saw the moon glowing brilliantly and whispered, "thank you." It was simple, but heartfelt. Never had a man been more grateful than that very moment when everything was utter perfection. With his family and his wife pressed up against him.

I gave three quiet cheers for Minnesota. In Seattle a dusty inch of anything white and chilly means the city lapses into full-on panic mode, as if each falling flake crashes to earth with its own individual baggie of used hypodermic needles. It's ridiculous.

It had been so silent in the wake of that commotion, a kind of potent silence that seemed to contain everything. The songs of the birds and the creak of the trees. The dying snow and the unseen gurgling water. The glimmering sun. The certain sky. The gun that didn't have a bullet in its chamber. And the mother. Always the mother. The one who would never come to me.

The air came alive with the sound of the wind whipping the trees at times and at other times it was profoundly hushed by the endless silencing snow. Everything but me seemed utterly certain of itself. The sky didn't wonder where it was.

You only need the light when it is burning low Only miss the sun when it starts to snow.   How

You only need the light when it is burning low Only miss the sun when it starts to snow.

Darkness turned on her pillow white; A star serenely shone; Deeply, deeply into the night Cut the sword of dawn. Over the snow the pale east threw Abroach where daylight broke, Crimson stains on the abbey panes Above the hamlet smoke...

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

An ancient maple-tree, a strong sweet tree That has made wild music from the wind and snow For ninety winters; a maple-tree whose arms, Stretching against the rain, the bouncing hail, Has sheltered multitudes of travellers And straggling hosts of elders, wayworn, palsied, And weary with the day,—for ninety summers.

A man of words and not of deeds Is like a garden full of weeds; And when the weeds begin to grow, It's like a garden full of snow...

Winter came down To our home One night Quietly pirouetting in On silvery-toed slippers Of snow. And we, We were children Once again.

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