Best 782 quotes in «snow quotes» category

Merry Christmas. His would be without the Merry for sure.

My breath came out in a fog and rose into the milky sky. Snow fell on my eyelashes, and all of Brooklyn turned white, a world in a globe. Every snowflake that I caught was a miracle unlike any other.

My goal is to read as much as possible books, my dream is to meet the snow person, the storm person and to make something together. I will be the rain, Snowy will be the snow, Stormy will be the storm - it's not so complicated as far I see.

My grandpa used to say, ‘the heart knows what it wants even when the head doesn’t.

Negative people will always be there to stain your pure image with their dirty tongues and brushes, but you'll always remain as white as snow, no matter how high the quality of paint they use.

NEW HAIKU One breathy vowel mists the glass warming window panes crystalled with snow Robin Glasser

Never Forget Who You Are Beacause Its Like Forgetingg Water Is Wet,The Sun Is Bright,Snow Is Cold.Its Rudunent.

NIGHT SNOW I was surprised my quilt and pillow were cold, I see that now the window's bright again. Deep in the night, I know the snow is thick, I sometimes hear the sound as bamboo snaps.

Not a day passes when the eagle of dark depression doesn't take flight in my soul, said Sunay, infusing his words with mysterious pride. But I cannot catch myself. So hold yourself in. All's well that ends well.

No, I'm from the South, remember? We get snow when we've done something to upset God, which we don't do very often.

On a cold winter day even the snow needs the touch of the sun!

Now everyone is prouder and poorer

„Oglinda și nălucile din ea se mișcau una-ntr-alta, ca într-un film. Personajele nu aveau legătură cu decorul. Purtau în ele o transparență fugară, într-un peisaj care era doar o întunecare încețoșată de seară. Ambele, topite și amestecate, schițau o lume părelnică de umbre. Atunci luci în ochiul fetei o luminiță venită de departe, din câmpie, iar Shimamura se înfioră de atâta frumusețe […] se pomeni gândind în sinea lui că perindarea priveliștilor din oglindă și fluviul timpului care curgea pe lângă el erau lucruri foarte asemănătoare”.

On my bedside table is a snow globe with a winterscape inside. Church, park bench, girl standing shin-deep in snow. Tip the snow globe over and a blizzard of slow snow falls over church and bench and girl. What is it about snow globes that makes them fascinating and terrifying at once? My heart lurches at the thought of the snow-globe girl waiting endlessly, with only the hope of a new snow blizzard to settle on her mantle when the next person tips her snow-globe world over. Not a gust of breeze may ruffle her skirt, not a bird may perch atop the steeple. The only way out of a snow globe is by shattering the glass dome that is its sky.

One winter morning Peter woke up and looked out the window. Snow had fallen during the night. It covered everything as far as he could see.

On gray days, when it's snowing or raining, I think you should be able to call up a judge and take an oath that you'll just read a good book all day, and he'd allow you to stay home.

On increasingly warm nice days I liked to sit toward noon on the bench encircling the cherry tree and look at the bare trees, the freshly plowed fields, the green strips of winter planting, the meadows that were already sprouting, and through the fragrance which swells out of the ground with the advent of spring contemplate the mountains, gleaming with the colossal quantities of snow still on them.

Only mountains can feel the frozen warmth of the sun through snow's gentle caress on their peaks

Outside the window there was snow falling, falling like movie snow, all the dreamy fluffy bits drifting around in the light of a single streetlamp . . . I watched the snow slow down, thin out. Then it was two or three pieces at a time, falling reversibly, wavering up and down and up again like they didn't know where to go.

Places I love come back to me like music, Hush me and heal me when I am very tired; I see the oak woods at Saxton's flaming In a flare of crimson by the frost newly fired; And I am thirsty for the spring in the valley As for a kiss ungiven and long desired. I know a bright world of snowy hills at Boonton, A blue and white dazzling light on everything one sees, The ice-covered branches of the hemlocks sparkle Bending low and tinkling in the sharp thin breeze, And iridescent crystals fall and crackle on the snow-crust With the winer sun drawing cold blue shadows from the trees. Violet now, in veil on veil of evening, The hills across from Cromwell grow dreamy and far; A wood-thrush is singing soft as a viol In the heart of the hollow where the dark pools are; The primrose has opened her pale yellow flowers And heaven is lighting star after star. Places I love come back to me like music– Mid-ocean, midnight, the eaves buzz drowsily; In the ship's deep churning the eerie phosphorescence Is like the souls of people who were drowned at sea, And I can hear a man's voice, speaking, hushed , insistent, At midnight, in mid-ocean, hour on hour to me.

Outside, snow solidified itself into graceful forms. The peace of winter stars seemed permanent.

Outside, the sky was clear, stars gleaming in its ebony vastness like celestial fireflies. It was bitterly cold, and Hywel's every breath trailed after him in pale puffs of smoke. The glazed snow crackled underfoot as he started towards the great hall.

Patience is to wait for the ice to melt instead of breaking it.

People make a great deal of the flowers of spring and the leaves of autumn, but for me a night like this, with a clear moon shining on snow, is the best -- and there is not a trace of color in it. I cannot describe the effect it has on me, weird and unearthly somehow. I do not understand people who find a winter evening forbidding.

Pete's a good guy." "He just slept with my mother!" "I didn't say he was perfect.

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.

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")

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 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.

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.

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'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 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 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 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 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.

Snow is a white candle emitting warm beauties around it!

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

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... 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.