Best 782 quotes in «snow quotes» category

Reece?" she asked softly. "Hmmm?" "Kiss me." And he did. There wasn't even a possibility of saying no.

RETURNING LATE ON THE ROAD FROM PINGQUAN ON WINTER’S DAY The mountain road is hard to travel, the sun now slanting down, In a misty village, a crow lands on a frosted tree. I'll not arrive before night falls, but that should not concern me, Once I've drunk three warm cups, I'll feel as if at home.

Seasons happened and things got colder and harder and suddenly I found myself smoking circles in the air by myself in the snow and I was not okay.

Seeing that I would never manage to fall asleep, I arose, lit a candle, and after dressing went outside. Beneath the dull glow of the winter moon the snow glowed like pale blue china. The sidewalks sparkled weakly beneath the rays of the flickering street lamps; the benumbed streets slumbered forlornly. I walked, passing one corner after the other, and suddenly found myself on the edge of town. Further, beyond the square, an endless expanse began to glisten with a somber silverness. I stopped just before the gates. My intent gaze could distinguish nothing in the distant white expanse. Before me rose the imposing bank of the Volga like a gigantic snowdrift. So barren and uninviting was this deserted view resembling eternity that my heart contracted. I turned to the right and approached quite close to the monastery enclosure. From behind the bronze gates, glimmered a dense net of crosses and gravestones. The ancient eyes of the church gazed forbiddingly down on me, and with an eerie feeling I thought of the monks sleeping at this moment in tomb-like cells together with corpses. Were any of them thinking of the hour of death on this night? ("Lamia")

Se la speranza è un sentimento che può sconfiggere la paura, allora in quel momento che ho camminato in salita attraverso sul letto di neve, le mie tracce erano di gioia determinazione.

She and Lisa always called that kind of snow heroic, because a person could do no wrong in it. Everyone skied like a hero in that kind of snow.

Shards flew everywhere, slicing her hands, her forearm, and cascading to the floor like snow glistening on a winter morning.

She'd first seen Covent Garden after a heavy snow, walking with her hand in Win's, and she remembers the secret silence of London then, the amazing hush of it, slush crunching beneath her feet and the sound made by trapezoidal sections of melting snow falling from wires overhead. Win had told her that she was seeing London as it had looked long ago, the cars mostly put away and the modern bits shrouded in white, allowing the outlines of something older to emerge. And what she had seen, that childhood day, was that it was not a place that consisted of buildings, side by side, as she thought of cities in America, but a literal and continuous maze, a single living structure (because still it grew) of brick and stone.

She herself, as she had said, was oddly enjoying the snowy night. She had seldom had reason to be abroad in such weather at night, and she had forgotten, or never noticed, how clear the sky was or how brightly the stars twinkled down. They might have been the only ones alive in the whole world, for it was deadly still, the eerie light giving the night almost a magical quality. Everyday items were rendered mysterious and beautiful by their layer of white, and the only sounds were those they made, of creaking leather and the crisp squeak of snow underfoot.

She'd taken ten years off his life, frightening him the way she had, and now he'd easily subtracted another ten by kissing her. If he spent much more time with Jenna Campbell, he'd be dead inside a week.

She had never seen snow before, except in TV shows and movies. It had looked to her like the stars were flaking out of the sky. It had looked like thousands of fireflies in the moonlight; like breathlessness, like time stopping, like the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.

She says his eyes address her like the silence of the snow.

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

She sucked in a breath. "You're..." When she didn't finish the sentence, he turned his head and watched her gaze drop to his mouth, which was only a few inches from hers. "Handy," she finished softly. "And you're..." She smiled. "Stubborn? Annoying?" "Set to go," he said.

She wanted to stay out there, to hang on her branch in the world until the cold had burned down to her bones. She could leave her whitened bones scattered on the snow and depart like light. Whitened bones. A whited sepulcher.

She wished now she'd brought that vibrator as a flashlight instead of leaving it on the couch.

She watches her mother drink, then sits by her again before the picture window to watch the snow fall, watching closely until she can hear it. . . . Rachel listens to snow. And beyond snow.

Since it has quietly began to snow, new distances have awakened within me.

Silence can always be broken by the sound
 Of footsteps walking over frozen ground In winter when the melancholy trees Stand abject and let their branches freeze

Sniegam ir piecas pamatpazīmes. Tas ir balts. Tas sastindzina dabu un pasargā to. Tas nemitīgi pārvēršas. Tas ir slidens. Tas pārtop par ūdeni. Kad Juko par to ieminējās tēvam, viņš tajā saskatīja tikai negatīvo, it kā dēla dīvainā kaisle uz sniegu viņa acīs ziemas sezonu padarītu vēl biedējošāku. -Tas ir balts. Tātad neredzams un nav pelnījis būt redzams. Tas sastindzina dabu un pasargā to. Lepnais. Kas viņš tāds ir, lai apgalvotu, ka spēj sastindzināt pasauli? Tas nemitīgi pārvēršas. Tātad tas nav uzticams. Tas ir slidens. Kurš gan gūst baudu, paslīdot sniegā? Tas pārtop par ūdeni. Lai vairāk mūs appludinātu atkušņu laikā. Bet Juko savā sabiedrotajā saskatīja piecas citas īpašības, kas pilnībā apmierināja viņa māksliniecisko talantu. -Tas ir balts. Tātad sniegs ir dzeja. Neizsakāmas tīrības dzeja. Tas sastindzina dabu un pasargā to. Tātad sniegs ir glezna. Vissmalkākā ziemas glezna. Tas nemitīgi pārvēršas. Tātad sniegs ir kaligrāfija. Ir desmittūkstoš veidu, kā uzrakstīt vārdu sniegs. Tas ir slidens. Tātad sniegs ir deja. Uz sniega ikviens var sajusties kā virves dejotājs. Tas pārtop par ūdeni. Tātad sniegs ir mūzika. Pavasarī tas pārvērš upes un strautus baltu nošu simfonijās. -Sniegs Tev nozīmē to visu? - jautāja priesteris. -Vēl vairāk.

Snow is a white candle emitting warm beauties around it!

Snow is covering us. Close your eyes and sleep. Close your eyes and dream. This is one story. There will be another.

Snow cleaning of the world's largest telescope mirrors was an impressive sight. The optics technicians would climb into a huge telescopic boom lift and spray immense clouds of cold carbon dioxide snow and gas onto the ten meter diameter mirrors high above the floor indoors. It would cause some of the accumulated dirt to magically fall off, leaving it less dirty.

Snow harder! Snow more! Snow blizzards galore! I can’t get enough Of the fluffy white stuff! Snow! Snow! Snow! Snow a ton! Snow a heap! Snow ten feet deep! I wouldn’t cry If it snowed til July. Snow! Snow! Snow!

Snow is diamonds for a faery's feet; Blithely and bonnily she trips along, Her lips a-carol with a merry song, And in her eyes the meaning... Life is sweet!

Snow was the most beautiful thing Amitola had ever seen. It fell so gracefully and drizzled her skin like a cold whisper.

Snow is falling outside and all is peaceful and still. In such moments it is possible to believe that the world could still be good.

Snow makes a soft bed, but no man wakes from it. That was the wisdom of the North.

Soap never clean the stain of sin. Only the blood of the blameless Lamb, the Lord Jesus Christ can wash the stain of sin to be made as white as snow.

Snow as fine and grainy as sugar covered the windows in and sifted off to the floor and did not melt.

Snow... blots and softens the top of every object like ice on a plum pudding. Hedges, telegraph wires, cars, postboxes, recycling bins. The world is losing its edges. Look upwards and it seems as if the stars themselves are being poured from the sky and turn out not to be vast and fiery globes after all but tiny, frozen things which melt in the palm of your hand.

..snow gently settles like dust in a shaft - for one moment there is no one else - only the wind like the hiss of an ice skate ...

Snow is both our best friend and worst enemy. Best friend because it shows us in a concrete form the paths other have taken to get where they are. Worst enemy because it will tell such tales of us if we chance upon it. I find poetry in snow that cannot be resisted. In a way, it is the closest to time travel most civilians will ever manage.

Snow is snow.

Snow is not a wolf in sheep's clothing - it is a tiger in lamb's clothing.

Snow is the truth only when it's snowing.

Snow not falling but flying sidewise, and sudden, not signaled by the slow curdling of clouds all day and a flake or two drifting downward, but rushing forward all at once as though sent for. (The blizzard of '36 had looked like that.) And filling up the world's concavities, pillowing up in the gloaming, making night light with its whiteness, and then falling still in every one's dreams, falling for pages and pages... ("Novelty")

Some days you get up and you already know that things aren't going to go well. They're the type of days when you should just give in, put your pajamas back on, make some hot chocolate and read comic books in bed with the covers up until the world looks more encouraging. Of course, they never let you do that.

Sometimes there is no choice but to walk into your own house. Far away, you think, and you do not want to see. You come home and you say do not tell me. You say, I have hunted the elk all over the snowfields of the Selway, and I do not want to know what happened here. And then there is a morning you walk in and take a look in your own house, like any traveler.

Sometimes I would like to be a child again, and other times a woman made of snow.

Some people spend their entire lives seeing the snow without ever seeing the magic in the existence of one snowflake.

So they went running together, silent, toward the vast wastes of snow where no living thing but they two moved under the stars of night.

Stop talking," she said boldly as she closed the distance between them until they were touching. "We can walk to the bedroom or you can carry me but if you don't decide soon I may just go insane.

So you heroically undertook to endure the pains of faithlessness, just to be able to write good poems. But you didn´t realise then that when you lost that voice inside you, you´d end up all alone in an empty universe.

Spiders evidently as surprised by the weather as the rest of us: their webs were still everywhere - little silken laundry lines with perfect snowflakes hung out in rows to dry.

Strains of music spring up, crystallizing in the night air like rain turning suddenly to snow, drifting to earth.

The air is blue and keen and cold, With snow the roads and fields are white; But here the forest's clothed with light And in a shining sheath enrolled. Each branch, each twig, each blade of grass, Seems clad miraculously with glass: Above the ice-bound streamlet bends Each frozen fern with crystal ends.

That's Branton, Michigan, by the way. Don't try to find it on a map - you'd need a microscope. It's one of a dozen dinky towns north of Lansing, one of the few that doesn't sound like it was named by a French explorer. Branton, Michigan. Population: Not a Lot and Yet Still Too Many I Don't Particularly Care For. We have a shopping mall with a JCPenny and an Asian fusion place that everyone says they are dying to try even though it’s been there for three years now. Most of our other restaurants are attached to gas stations, the kind that serve rubbery purple hot dogs and sodas in buckets. There’s a statue of Francis B. Stockbridge in the center of town. He’s a Michigan state senator from prehistoric times with a beard that belongs on Rapunzel’s twin brother. He wasn’t born in Branton, of course – nobody important was ever born in Branton – but we needed a statue for the front of the courthouse and the name Stockbridge looks good on a copper plate. It’s all for show. Branton’s the kind of place that tries to pretend it’s better than it really is. It’s really the kind of place with more bars than bookstores and more churches than either, not that that’s necessarily a bad thing. It’s a place where teenagers still sometimes take baseball bats to mailboxes and wearing the wrong brand of shoes gets you at least a dirty look. It snows a lot in Branton. Like avalanches dumped from the sky. Like heaps to hills to mountains, the plows carving their paths through our neighborhood, creating alpine ranges nearly tall enough to ski down. Some of the snow mounds are so big you can build houses inside them, complete with entryways and coat closets. Restrooms are down the hall on your right. Just look for the steaming yellow hole. There’s nothing like that first Branton snow, though. Soft as a cat scruff and bleach white, so bright you can almost see your reflection in it. Then the plows come and churn up the earth underneath. The dirt and the boot tracks and the car exhaust mix together to make it all ash gray, almost black, and it sickens your stomach just to look at it. It happens everywhere, not just Branton, but here it’s something you can count on.

Thats what happens to Snow in Texas, lady. It freaking MELTS!!" Leo Valdez- The Lost Hero

The blast that swept him came off New Hampshire snow-fields and ice-hung forests. It seemed to have traversed interminable leagues of frozen silence, filling them with the same cold roar and sharpening its edge against the same bitter black-and-white landscape. ("The Triumph Of The Night")