Quotes for Events - Winter

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Quotes for Winter. Light the fire, grab a cup of hot cocoa and a snuggling blanket, and then immerse yourself in some lines dedicated solely to this season.

How like a winter hath my absence been. From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year! What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen, What old December's bareness everywhere!

You naked trees, whose shady leaues are lost, Wherein the byrds were wont to build their bowre: And now are clothd with mosse and hoary frost, Instede of bloosmes, wherewith your buds did flowre: I see your teares, that from your boughes doe raine, Whose drops in drery ysicles remaine.
. . . winter tames man, woman, and beast.. . .
Blow, blow, thou winter wind, Thou art not so unkind As man's ingratitude.
He that passeth a winters day escapes an enemy.
Thus Winter falls, A heavy Gloom oppressive o'er the World, Thro' Nature shedding Influence malign, And rouses up the Seeds of dark Disease. The Soul of Man dies in him, loathing Life, And black with more than melancholy Views.
My bones Feel the quilts; A frosty night
"The sweeping blast, the sky o'ercast," The joyless winter day Let others fear, to me more dear Than all the pride of May: The tempest's howl, it soothes my soul, My griefs it seems to join; The leafless trees my fancy please, Their fate resembles mine!
The Frost performs its secret ministry, Unhelped by any wind. The owlet's cry Came loud--and hark, again! loud as before. The inmates of my cottage, all at rest, Have left me to that solitude, which suits Abstruser musings. . . .
The English winter--ending in July, To recommence in August.
As an earthquake rocks a corse In its coffin in the clay, So White Winter, that rough nurse, Rocks the death-cold Year to-day; Solemn Hours! wail aloud For your mother in her shroud.
The ice-bound floods that still with rigour freeze The snow clothd valley and the naked tree These sympathising scenes my heart can please Distress is theirs--and they resemble me.
Announced by all the trumpets of the sky, Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields, Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven, And veils the farm-house at the garden's end.
He comes,--he comes,--the Frost Spirit comes! Let us meet him as we may, And turn with the light of the parlor-fire his evil power away; And gather closer the circle round, when that firelight dances high, And laugh at the shriek of the baffled Fiend as his sounding wing goes by!
When there is nothing left of the winter snow but these ridges behind the stone walls, and a dingy drift here and there in a hollow, or in the woods, Winter has virtually resigned the icicle which is his sceptre.
Here comes Winter, savage as when he met the Pilgrims at Plymouth, Indian all over, his staff a naked splintery hemlock, his robe torn from the backs of bears and bisons, and fringed with wampum of rattling icicles, turning the ground he treads to ringing iron, and, like a mighty sower, casting his snow far and wide, over all hills and valleys and plains.
The frost is here, And fuel is dear, And woods are sear, And fires burn clear, And frost is here And has bitten the heel of the going year.
The best fire in winter is made up of exercise, and the poorest of whiskey. He that keeps warm on liquor is like a man who pulls his house to pieces to feed the fireplace.
There's a certain Slant of light, Winter Afternoons--That oppresses, like the Heft Of Cathedral Tunes--Heavenly Hurt, it gives us--We can find no scar, But internal difference, Where the Meanings, are--
The boughs, the boughs are bare enough But earth has never felt the snow. Frost-furred our ivies are and rough With bills of rime the brambles shew The hoarse leaves crawl on hissing ground Because the sighing wind is low.
When will you cease, O dismal days? When will you set me free? For the frozen world and its desolate ways Are all unloved of me!
Winter is icummen in, Lhude sing Goddamm, Raineth drop and staineth slop, And how the wind doth ramm!
Midwinter spring is its own season Sempiternal though sodden towards sundown, Suspended in time, between pole and tropic. When the short day is brightest, with frost and fire, The brief sun flames the ice, on pond and ditches, In windless cold that is the heart's heat.
I leave this year as a man leaves wine, Remembering the summer, bountiful, the good fall, the months mellow and full. I sit in the northern room, in the dusk, the death of a year, And watch it go down in thunder.
That time of year you may in me behold When Christmas trees are blazing on the walk, Raging against stable snow and the cold And low sky's bundled wash, deadwhite as chalk.

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