Quotes About Frost

The frost performs its secret ministry, Unhelped by any wind.

The ice was here, the ice was there,   The ice was all around: 60   It cracked and growled, and roared and howled,   Like noises in a swound!

Scott Nicholson

english autumn mornings are often like mornings nowhere else in the world. The air is cold. The floorboards are cold. It is perhaps this coldness which sharpens the tang of the hot cup of tea. Outside, steps on the gravel crunch a little more loudly than a month ago because of the very slight frost

and because what we learn in the dark remains all our lives, a noise like the sea, displacing the day's pale knowledge, you'll come to yourself in a glimmer of rainfall or frost, the burnt smell of autumn, a meeting of parallel lines, and know you were someone else for the longest time, pretending you knew where you were, like a diffident tourist, lost on the one main square, and afraid to enquire.

It is the life of the crystal, the architect of the flake, the fire of the frost, the soul of the sunbeam. This crisp winter air is full of it.

The frost of loneliness makes me shiver.

A sap run is the sweet goodbye of winter. It is the fruit of the equal marriage of the sun and frost.

And finally Winter, with its bitin', whinin' wind, and all the land will be mantled with snow.

From my point of view, this is the best time of the year. I don't love heat. I'm a winter guy.

The neck on which diamonds might have worthily sparkled, will look less tempting when the biting winter has hung icicles there for gems.

England is like the margin of a spring-run: near its source, always green, always cool, always moist, comparatively free from frost in winter and from drought in summer.

I am a fan of winter sports.

Winter is my favourite season.

Having glue stuck to your face in winter is not fun. It freezes as it hits the skin.

We have had a very severe frost and deep snow this month. My thermometer was one day fourteen degrees and a half below the freezing point, within doors.

Tis but the frost that clears the air, And gives the sky that lovely blue; They're smiling in a winter's sun, Those evergreens of sombre hue.

When a man dies, his secrets bond like crystals, like frost on a window. His last breath obscures the glass.

Methinks I see the sunset light flooding the river valley, the western hills stretching to the horizon, overhung with trees gorgeous and glowing with the tints of autumn—a mighty flower garden, blossoming under the spell of the enchanter, Frost...

The tints of autumn...a mighty flower garden blossoming under the spell of the enchanter, frost.

Beyond a mortal man impassion'd farAt these voluptuous accents, he arose,Ethereal, flush'd, and like a throbbing starSeen mid the sapphire heaven's deep repose;Into her dream he melted, as the rose,Blendeth its odour with the violet,—Solution sweet: meantime the frost-wind blowsLike Love's alarum pattering the sharp sleetAgainst the window-panes; St. Agnes' moon hath set.

Faerie had no cold like England; rather it had the dream of cold, and the memory of frost.

By lunchtime the valley was lightly coated, like a cake with confectioner's sugar...there was white fur on the antlers of the iron deer and on the melancholy boughs of the Norway spruce.

He loved to meditate on a land laid waste, Britain deserted by the legions, the rare pavements riven by frost, Celtic magic still brooding on the wild hills and in the black depths of the forest, the rosy marbles stained with rain, and the walls growing grey.