There are having flowers in Spring, breezes in Summer, moon in Autumn, snows in Winter. If there is nothing worrying over you, it will be the best seasons at all times.
If there comes a little thaw, Still the air is chill and raw, Here and there a patch of snow, Dirtier than the ground below, Dribbles down a marshy flood; Ankle-deep you stick in mud In the meadows while you sing, This is Spring.
Snow has turned the world into a cemetery. But the world already was a cemetery and the snow has only come to announce it.
So comes snow after fire, and even dragons have their endings.
Or like the snow falls in the river, A moment white-then melts for ever . . .
But where are the snows of last year? That was the greatest concern of Villon, the Parisian poet.
Do you hear the snow against the windowpanes, Kitty? How nice and soft it sounds! Just as if some one was kissing the window all over outside. I wonder if the snow loves the trees and fields, that it kisses them so gently? And then it covers them up snug, you know, with a white quilt; and perhaps it says, 'Go to sleep, darlings, till the summer comes again.' And when they wake up in the summer, Kitty, they dress themselves all in green, and dance about - whenever the wind blows.
As soon go kindle fire with snow, as seek to quench the fire of love with words.
Resting on your laurels is as dangerous as resting when you are walking in the snow. You doze off and die in your sleep.
Advice is like snow - the softer it falls, the longer it dwells upon, and the deeper in sinks into the mind. Samuel Taylor Coleridge Snow falling soundlessly in the middle of the night will always fill my heart with sweet clarity.
Money is only congealed snow.
Good timber does not grow with ease: The stronger wind, the stronger trees; The further sky, the greater length; The more the storm, the more the strength. By sun and cold, by rain and snow, In trees and men good timbers grow.
The fault-finder will find faults even in paradise. Love your life, poor as it is. You may perhaps have some pleasant, thrilling, glorious hours, even in a poor-house. The setting sun is reflected from the windows of the alms-house as brightly as from the rich man's abode; the snow melts before its door as early in the spring. I do not see but a quiet mind may live as contentedly there, and have as cheering thoughts, as in a palace.
I love snow, snow, and all the forms of radiant frost.
Genius is an African who dreams up snow.
We trust in plumed procession For such the angels go Rank after rank, with even feet/And uniforms of snow.
The trouble with the last snowfall of the season is that you can't be sure.
Sometimes I feel like a tree on a hill, at the place where all the wind blows and the hail hits the tree the hardest. All the people I love are down the side aways, sheltered under a great rock, and I am out of the fold, standing alone in the sun and the snow. I feel like I am not part of the rest somehow, although they welcome me and are kind. I see my family as they sit together and it is like they have a certain way between them that is beyond me. I wonder if other folks ever feel included yet alone.
I want a soul mate who can sit me down, shut me up, tell me ten things I don’t already know, and make me laugh. I don’t care what you look like, just turn me on. And if you can do that, I will follow you on bloody stumps through the snow. I will nibble your mukluks with my own teeth. I will do your windows. I will care about your feelings. Just have something in there.
Don't knock the weather; nine-tenths of the people couldn't start a conversation if it didn't change once in a while.
Come, see the north-wind's masonry, Out of an unseen quarry evermore Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer Curves his white bastions with projected roof Round every windward stake, or tree, or door. Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work So fanciful, so savage, naught cares he For number or proportion.
Two polar groups: at one pole we have the literary intellectuals, at the other scientists, and as the most representative, the physical scientists. Between the two a gulf of mutual incomprehension.
Winter was nothing but a season of snow; spring, allergies; and summer...It was the worst. That was swimsuit season.
A light snow, a snow so faint and small-bodied that it seems nothing more than a manifestation of the cold.
Snow flurries began to fall and they swirled around people's legs like house cats. It was magical, this snow globe world.
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