But Shakespeare knows what the sphinx thinks, if anybody does. His genius is penetrative as cold midwinter entering every room, and making warmth shi…

- William Alfred Quayle

Winter's notion of poetry is tragedy. It knows nothing of comedy. Its laughter was frozen on its lips long ago.

- William Alfred Quayle

Winter is on the road to spring. Some think it a surly road. I do not. A primrose road to spring were not as engaging to my heart as a frozen icicled…

- William Alfred Quayle

Frankly, the trouble with winter is, it is all backbone. It is fleshless, insensate, with neither a breast to be leaned on nor a heart to love and ac…

- William Alfred Quayle

Winter is ruthless and sometimes sullen and murderous. The wild winter North has gulped ten thousand summers down nor left a froth of sunshine on its…

- William Alfred Quayle

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 on…

- William Alfred Quayle