Best 782 quotes in «snow quotes» category

The dark, twisting clouds that had settled over Vendona’s streets seemed to open up and glide past the winking moon. The wind moaned slowly as it died while the trees began dancing with a melody only known to nature. The city became alive, and time raced forward as the sky warmed slightly. It was no longer snowing.

The exact science of one molecule transformed into another -- that Mabel could not explain, but then again she couldn't explain how a fetus formed in the womb, cells becoming beating heart and hoping soul. She could not fathom the hexagonal miracle of snowflakes formed from clouds, crystallized fern and feather that tumble down to light on a coat sleeve, white stars melting even as they strike. How did such force and beauty come to be in something so small and fleeting and unknowable?

The field was covered with ice crystals sticking up like a garden of little diamonds. Sophia was beside her now, and the two animals walked slowly into the crystal blossoms. Flora was enchanted. For a moment she forgot she was hungry, tired, and ill-equipped to make this journey. She forgot to worry about Oscar. She forgot to worry that there would never be a useful job for her. She kicked up her front hooves with each step and watched the ice crystals scatter in front of her.

The first snow is like the first love. Do you remember your first snow?

The flakes are the size of tiny feathers, and that’s the way snow is, it’s not necessarily cold.

the fragrance of pine resin is frankincense poured out—a balm of stars and snow and moonlit nights

The light irradiates white peaks of Annapurna marching down the sky, in the great rampart that spreads east and west for eighteen hundred miles, the Himalaya- the alaya (abode, or home) of hima (snow).Hibiscus, frangipani, bougainvillea: seen under snow peaks, these tropical blossoms become the flowers of heroic landscapes. Macaques scamper in green meadow, and a turquoise roller spins in a golden light. Drongos, rollers, barbets, and white Eqyptian vulture are the common birds, and all have close relatives in East Africa.

The majority of boys think the highest form of creativity is weeing a pattern into snow.

There are two kinds of Communists: the arrogant ones, who enter the fray hoping to make men out of the people and bring progress to the nation; and the innocent ones, who get involved because they believe in equality and justice. The arrogant ones are obsessed with power; they presume to think for everyone; only bad can come of them. But the innocents? The only harm they do is to themselves. But that's all they ever wanted in the first place. They feel so guilty about the suffering of the poor, and are so keen to share it, that they make their lives miserable on purpose.

The problem with the snow is that it sticks to everything it touches. You can’t get rid of it. Even when it melts away, the chill still clings to your bones.

The message snow gives us is very valuable: The environment you live in can suddenly change! Are you ready for this? Let us be thankful to the snow for this spectacular warning!

The most dangerous weather condition that I experienced at high altitude was walking out of the observatory to check on astronomers in another building during a snow blizzard. When I was returning to the observatory the conditions progressed to white out, stranding me in a nighttime snow field. I was only able to return to the safety of the observatory by following my footprints in the snow with the flashlight.

Then came night that was like falling water. At times, for hours, a bird spirit, half buzzard, half swan, just above the rushes from which a snow-storm howls.

The notes went out crystalline into the clean winter morning, to sound on the far, snowy peaks.

The rain turns lighter, turns to snow. And I have a sense that we have not yet arrived, that we are still reaching. For each other. For who we are meant to be.

There are winter evenings in Massachusetts when there is no wind and the crust on the snow seems to hold in the cold. And if the moon is three-quarters full, its light adds a kind of warmth to the surrounding earth.

There is something hot in snow: Its pure and clean look!

There's relief in not having to be outside. No gardening, no mowing the lawn, no tyranny of long daylight hours to fill with productive activity. We rip through summer, burning the hours and tearing up the land. Then snow comes like a bandage, and winter heals the wounds.

There's been a lot to get used to here." Esther laughed. "Isn't that the truth. I don't know if you ever get used to it really. It just gets in your blood so that you can't stand to be anywhere else.

There's this moment, just before it happens, when everything around you goes still. It's like that moment you get just before it snows - like nature is holding its breath ... And in that moment, anything is possible, and everything you know is called into question.

There was no more yelling or calling out, but they could not contain the small snatches of laughter. They were only humans, playing in the snow, in a house

There were ghosts in the wind, whispers from the snow or the invisible meltwater flowing beneath.

There were, in Feo's experience, five kinds of cold. There was wind cold, which Feo barely felt. It was fussy and loud and turned your cheeks as red as if you'd been slapped, but couldn't kill you even if it tried. There was snow cold, which plucked at your arms and chapped your lips, but brought real rewards. It was Feo's favorite weather: The snow was soft and good for making snow wolves. There was ice cold, which might take the skin off your palm if you let it, but probably wouldn't if you were careful. Ice cold smelled sharp and knowing. It often came with blue skies and was good for skating. Feo had respect for ice cold. Then there was hard cold, which was when the ice cold got deeper and deeper until at the end of a month you couldn't remember if the summer had ever really existed. Hard cold could be cruel. Birds died in midflight. It was the kind of cold that you booted and kicked your way through. And then there was blind cold. Blind cold smelled of metal and granite. It took all the sense out of your brain and blew the snow into your eyes until they were glued shut and you had to rub spit into them before they would blink. Blind cold was forty degrees below zero. This was the kind of cold that you didn't sit down to think in, unless you wanted to be found dead in the same place in May or June. Feo had felt blind cold only once.

The sky was clear, the stars hung high overhead, and the moon was just a sliver, rather than a full moon, so that it proved to be significantly dark out. However, the coating of snow upon the ground looked bright in the moonlight.

The snow in winter, the flowers in spring. There is no deeper reality.

The snow starts again in the afternoon: fine flakes at first, but becoming gradually heavier. The world is silent. I watch through the window as it continues to fall. I’m supposed to be working on writing this book, but I am staring at the view out of the window, which is like a giant snow globe. Someone has shaken my world and I’m watching as it rearranges itself.

The skin of frozen snow crunched satisfyingly beneath my boots as I smashed each step into the ground just as I planned to smash my foes.

The snow was coming down so hard. It looked like the flakes were hurrying to get out of the sky so the next ones would have room to fall.

The sound we hear when it snows is the soft song of the white beauty!

The thaw came and the snow melted away and so did my dad. 'til there wasn't nothing left.

The white noise from the old Walkman enveloped them both; like a blanket of new snow, it draped itself over them, shutting out all the curious looks. And the world under the blanket was - surprisingly, wonderfully - absolutely, quiet.

They gathered after mass, sang hymns and read. Everyone had grown even more serene; beneath the sisters' kerchiefs it was as if there were no faces. When they met Daryushka — it was as if they bowed down lower. She was walking in the Spirit. Daryushka was entirely serene. She was thinking of nothing, had turned within herself, peering inside; and inside her all was smiling ever so gently. After the storm clear days came, frosty, crackling, clear days. Snow and sky, snow and sky, and the sky was even brighter, whiter, from the snow — and the snow sparkled with blue fires from the sky. Daryushka went down to the river with buckets, to the ice-hole. She went down to the landing alone... Snow, and sky, and brilliance... ("He Has Descended")

The wind crooned softly as it dusted the snow against the windows, wrapping them in a thick and fluffy cotton blanket.

The wind swept the snow aside, ever faster and thicker, as if it were trying to catch up with something, and Yurii Andreievich stared ahead of him out of the window, as if he were not looking at the snow but were still reading Tonia’s letter and as if what flickered past him were not small dry snow crystals but the spaces between the small black letters, white, white, endless, endless.

They have a complicated saying that likens snow to love." "It speaks of the beauty and the harshness, of watching a perfect flake land on bare skin and melt away in an instant. Of the soft powder giving way underfoot and the creeping chill of ice in your bones turning your lips blue and your fingertips black. Of terrible pain and delirious joy.

They laughed. They kissed. They loved.

This creature kneeling dusted with snow, its teeth grinding together, sound of old stones at the bottom of a river You lugged it to the barn I held the lantern, we leaned over it as if it were being born. The sheep hangs upside down from the rope, a long fruit covered with wool and rotting. It waits for the dead wagon to harvest it. Mournful November this is the image you invent for me, the dead sheep came out of your head, a legacy: Kill what you can’t save what you can’t eat throw out what you can’t throw out bury What you can’t bury give away what you can’t give away you must carry with you, it is always heavier than you thought.

This ends my true account of how I avenged Frank Ross' blood over in Choctaw Nation when snow was on the ground.

…to celebrate by making love the first snow of winter.

Those footprints in the snow led me to this wildfire.

Three scents accompany my memories of this place: cut wood, poppy-seed bread, and the soft, crisp smell of snow.

This is my first snow at Smith. It is like any other snow, but from a different window, and there lies the singular charm of it.

This twinned twinkle was delightful but not completely satisfying; or rather it only sharpened my appetite for other tidbits of light and shade, and I walked on in a state of raw awareness that seemed to transform the whole of my being into one big eyeball rolling in the world's socket. Through peacocked lashes I saw the dazzling diamond reflection of the low sun on the round back of a parked automobile. To all kinds of things a vivid pictorial sense had been restored by the sponge of the thaw. Water in overlapping festoons flowed down one sloping street and turned gracefully into another. With ever so slight a note of meretricious appeal, narrow passages between buildings revealed treasures of brick and purple. I remarked for the first time the humble fluting - last echoes of grooves on the shafts of columns - ornamenting a garbage can, and I also saw the rippling upon its lid - circles diverging from a fantastically ancient center. Erect, dark-headed shapes of dead snow (left by the blades of a bulldozer last Friday) were lined up like rudimentary penguins along the curbs, above the brilliant vibration of live gutters. I walked up, and I walked down, and I walked straight into a delicately dying sky, and finally the sequence of observed and observant things brought me, at my usual eating time, to a street so distant from my usual eating place that I decided to try a restaurant which stood on the fringe of the town. Night had fallen without sound or ceremony when I came out again. ("The Vane Sisters")

Un rideau de flocons blancs ininterrompu miroitait sans cesse en descendant vers la terre; il effaçait les formes, poudrait les choses d'une mousse de glace; et l'on n'entendait plus, dans le grand silence de la ville calme et ensevelie sous l'hiver, que ce froissement vague, innommable et flottant de la neige qui tombe, plutôt sensation que bruit , entremêlement d'atomes légers qui semblaient emplir l'espace, couvrir le monde.

Trees lose their leaves in blizzards like these.

What, Rudolph wasn’t available?

Virgil had read once that Grandma Moses was a primitive painter because she thought snow was white. The writer said if you really looked at it, snow was hardly ever white. It mostly was a gentler version of the color of the sky - blue, gray, orange in the evenings and mornings, often with purple shadows. When he looked, sure enough, the guy was right, and Grandma Moses had her head up her ass.

Welcome," the man said in utter contradiction to his urban street clothes. He eyed the vibrator in Cooper's hand but whatever his thoughts were on a guy wielding a vibrator, he kept to himself. "I'll get some candles.

What's the big deal? Snow's just rain that's been left out in the cold.

We'll have all night for slow and sweet," she said softly. "But right now, I really want that hard and fast you mentioned earlier.