Quotes About Snow

Reine-Marie put her head back and laughed. Armand smiled, then turned full circle. His gaze took in the dark forests and luminous homes, the three huge pines and the soft snow falling from the sky, as though the Heavens had opened, and all the angels were joining them. Here. Here. "Dad." Armand turned.

snowflake might look harmless, but it was a harbinger, a warning, of worse to come.

Outside, clouds had once again rolled in and brought with them snow. Again. Huge soft flakes, as though the clouds themselves were breaking up and drifting down in pieces.

Snow was coming down thicker now. But while it was heavy, it was also gentle. Like feathers out of a broken pillow.

I hope it snows early next term and then I can try out the hilariosity of my new idea vis-à-vis glove animal and snow blindness.

The moon. There's no other moon like one on a clear New Mexico night. It rises over the Sandias and soothes the miles and miles of barren desert with all the quiet whiteness of a first snow.

Useimmat mainarit olivat suomalaisia, ja töistä tultuaan he menivät suihkuun ja saunaan. Saunan edessä oli puinen karsina, ja talvella he juoksivat ulos ja kieriskelivät lumessa. Ensin me tirkistelimme aidanraosta ja hihittelimme miesten sinisiä kaluja ja palleja, mutta sitten me nauroimme ääneen niin kuin hekin, silkasta riemusta, kun oli lunta ja sininen, sininen taivas.

The Finns also have a rather lovely word for the aurora borealis: revontulet, which translates as 'foxfire'. The origins are supposedly in a Finnish fable, in which an Arctic fox, running through snow, sprayed up crystals with his tail, causing sparks to fly off into the night sky.

O how beautiful, look at the crimson snow! And up there on the rocks there are ever so many roses!

She was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen, a tiny, bloody angel in the snow, and they were going to destroy her.

Is this a mild winter or a harsh winter?

All that winter I shoveled snow and read books. The lines of print, the alphabetic characters, the strokes of the shovel when I cleared a walk, the linear arrangement of words on a page, the shovel strokes, the rote exercises in school texts, the novels I read, the dictionaries I found in the tiny library, the nature and shape of books, the routine of shovel strokes in the deep snow - this was how I began to build an individual.

The snow is coming, she said. Soon it will be snow time. Together then as in other snow times. Drinking busthead 'round the fire. Truth is a locked room that we knock the lock off from time to time, and then board up again. Tomorrow you will hurt me, and I will inform you that you have done so, and so on and so on. To hell with it. Come, viridian friend, come and sup with me.

Love is like sounds, whose last reverberations / Hang on the leaves of strange trees, on mountains / As distant as the curving of the earth, / Where the snow hangs still in the middle of the air. -from Love is Like Sounds

The snow in the mountains was melting and Bunny had been dead for several weeks before we came to understand the gravity of our situation.

They were playing old Bob Dylan, more than perfect for narrow Village streets close to Christmas and the snow whirling down in big feathery flakes, the kind of winter where you want to be walking down a city street with your arm around a girl like on the old record cover

Even now I remember those pictures, like pictures in a storybook one loved as a child. Radiant meadows, mountains vaporous in the trembling distance; leaves ankle-deep on a gusty autumn road; bonfires and fog in the valleys; cellos, dark window-panes, snow.

In the old days, the snow would drift up to the eaves of the roofs and people would be trapped in their houses and starve to death, they wouldn't be found until spring.

for the first time I realized how lonely the next two months would really be, with the school closed, the snow deep, everyone gone.

I was thinking of starting at the old base in the first film or skipping over that and starting at a new base. We could start on the Ice Planet, which would be striking. We've never been there before, an underground installation in a giant snow bank. Very hostile, with wind blowing around and the cold. They're saying, 'We've got to get rid of the Emperor,' which we never said in the other film.

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

When he walked in her dreams moths rose from the earth where his paws touched the ground, as if born from his footfall. They followed him, a cloud of moths of all colours. And the music of moth wings followed him. And the dancing lights of the northern sky hung in his breath. In his eyes, a world of wild. On his coat, the colours of snow. In his voice, the wisdom of untamed things.

She asked him, What is the scent of snow? He replied, Soft, cold, blue. And she asked of blue could be a scent. He answered, Moss, tundra, clean earth and lichen. The scent of snow is calm, An absence of scent that illuminates, so that any warm life smells so rich.

Snow mutes scent, he said. Cold steals the scent from land, but also enlivens. And, where ice meets sea, the salt scent sharpens, water thickens. Out on the ice, mineral pure, the scent of snow is a sharp pain, a tightening of breath.