quotations about winter
The most revealing part of our missing winter is how few people I've heard complaining. Some hearty souls genuinely miss the freezing cold, but for most Montrealers, this is our winter of content.
JOSH FREED
"For most Montrealers, this is the winter of our content", Montreal Gazette, February 5, 2016
Winter is not an end. It is in transit. It is headed to bankruptcy. The sheriff will sell its stock for what he can get and an ice man will be the only bidder at the sale.
WILLIAM A. QUAYLE
"Headed Into Spring", The Sanctuary, March 17, 1921
With what was hopefully winter's last gasp behind us, I think back to when I first saw the snow stand still and unperturbed on the far-flung grounds of UConn, evenly plowed and in the habit of turning into tunnels. The streetlights shone brighter with the backdrop of the icy snow, and random flakes flew past my nose as I walked alone across the bridge near Mirror Lake. The snow! This once inconsequential day, merely colder than those delightful six weeks before UConn turns into a cage match between you and the wind, became a day where strings of violins glided over the covered ground, pushed by the East Wind, all the while laughing at the people who dared to walk through its cold. It told of times past and celebrated times present, and for ten minutes, winter was cool.
STEN SPINELLA
"Storytime with Sten: The melancholy of winter, the pressure of summer", Daily Campus, March 20, 2017
He found a place where he was not only content but, despite suffering mightily in winter, was filled with a sense of joy and fulfilment.
SIMON WORRALL
"Why the North Pond Hermit Hid From People for 27 Years", National Geographic, April 9, 2017
Winter is approaching. Yes, it is approaching ... How to live?
MAXIM GORKY
Creatures That Once Were Men
Winter's notion of poetry is tragedy. It knows nothing of comedy. Its laughter was frozen on its lips long ago.
WILLIAM A. QUAYLE
"Headed Into Spring", The Sanctuary, March 17, 1921
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."
LEWIS CARROLL
Through the Looking Glass and What Alice Found There
The wolf of winter
Devours roads and towns
In his white hunger.
The wolf of winter
Sticks his paw into the city's rancid pot,
Wanly stirring its soup of whores and suicides.
KENNETH PATCHEN
"The Wolf of Winter", Selected Poems
A man says a lot of things in summer he doesn't mean in winter.
PATRICIA BRIGGS
Dragon Blood
Under the snowdrifts the blossoms are sleeping,
Dreaming their dreams of sunshine and June,
Down in the hush of their quiet they're keeping
Trills from the throstle's wild summer-sung tune.
HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD
Under the Snowdrifts
Everywhere I go I hear comments that this is the longest winter ever, that people are just sick of it and that they'll never spend another winter here if at all possible. But not in my house. I have spent many decades now with that other guy, the one who gleefully checks weather reports online to see when it's going to snow and smiles broadly when he looks out the window and sees his dreams coming true in the form of big fat snowflakes. Happily he dons his winter apparel and out he goes to shovel the walk and driveway, twice a day or more if necessary. Couldn't be happier.
STEFANIE PETTIT
"Front Porch: For some, winter is a time of joy", The Spokesman-Review, March 15, 2017
Lilac dries to burnt sienna,
the greens of summer go to ochre.
The goldfinch molts to gray.
In winter light, the cabin
casts its violet shadow. Here
no color can surprise a canvas
except crow's constancy.
ELIZABETH SEYDEL MORGAN
"Painting the Blue Ridge Red", On Long Mountain: Poems
The winter is a slow time, but it's not lifeless. As you huddle against the cold on a February day, you may be ready for spring to come. But all around you, there are other forms of life that are ready too.
BETH BOTTS
"Winter wildlife: There's something alive out there in the garden", Chicago Tribune, February 24, 2016
His breath like silver arrows pierced the air,
The naked earth crouched shuddering at his feet,
His finger on all flowing waters sweet
Forbidding lay--motion nor sound was there:--
Nature was frozen dead,--and still and slow,
A winding sheet fell o'er her body fair,
Flaky and soft, from his wide wings of snow.
FANNY KEMBLE
Winter
If the dark days of winter are a struggle where everything seems that little bit harder, it is not just your imagination. Scientists have discovered that the brain actually works differently throughout the year, with some parts far more active in the summer than in the winter months. In fact, brain activity related to attention and concentration peaks during the summer solstice and slumps to a low on the shortest day of the year.
SARAH KNAPTON
"Why winter is a mental struggle: human brain more active in summer, scientists find", The Telegraph, February 8, 2016
What's the point of complaining? We live in the north. Winter exists.
VIKI MATHER
"You might as well learn to love the winter", Northern Life, February 8, 2016
Melancholy were the sounds on a winter's night.
VIRGINIA WOOLF
Jacob's Room
When winter twilight falls on my street with the rain, a sense of the horrible sadness of life descends upon me. I think of drunken old women who drown themselves because nobody loves them; I think of Napoleon at St. Helena, and of Byron growing morose and fat in the enervating climate of Italy.
LOGAN PEARSALL SMITH
Trivia
If you felt like Dick or Debbie Downer this winter, it's OK to blame the weather. On the bright side, the mercury on the thermometer outside your kitchen window is rising weekly and the sun's light is becoming more frequent and direct. Before long, we'll be awash in color. And, perhaps, pollen.
NIC LOYD & LINDA WEIFORD
"Weathercatch: Why it was a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad winter", The Spokesman-Review, April 5, 2017
The Winter is coming -- the Winter is near --
Dread Winter's approaching -- the giant is here;
His footsteps are treading o'er everything green;
His breath is a frost fast encrusting the scene.
The trees are now yellow, the leaves are now sere;
Their pride and their beauty have fled in their fear.
The flowers -- where are they? entombed in the shroud
That hides them from view like a beautiful cloud --
The first fall of snow! How it glitters so clear!
What a pity such beauty begetteth a tear!
What a pity that purity such as the snow's
Is the instrument oft of the bitterest woes!
JOHN MURDOCK
"The Winter Is Coming", Joy Hours; Or, Poems, Songs, and Lyrics