Best 782 quotes in «snow quotes» category

Maturity is when you no longer get the urge to make snow angels in mud season

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 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.

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.

Now everyone is prouder and poorer

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.

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

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

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.

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

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.

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 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.

„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”.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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'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.

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.

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.

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")

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

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.

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

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