Explore Quotes on Winter

Spring passes and one remembers one's innocence.

Only in winter can you tell which trees are truly green. Only when the winds of adversity blow can you tell whether an individual or a country has steadfastness.

Any one thinking of the Holy Child as born in December would mean by it exactly what we mean by it; that Christ is not merely a summer sun of the prosperous but a winter fire for the unfortunate.

Gone were but the Winter,_x000D__x000D_Come were but the Spring,_x000D__x000D_I would go to a covert_x000D__x000D_Where the birds sing;_x000D__x000D__x000D_Where in the whitethorn_x000D__x000D_Singeth a thrush,_x000D__x000D_And a robin sings_x000D__x000D_In the holly-bush._x000D__x000D__x000D_Full of fresh scents_x000D__x000D_Are the budding boughs_x000D__x000D_Arching high over_x000D__x000D_A cool green house:_x000D__x000D__x000D_Full of sweet scents,_x000D__x000D_And whispering air_x000D__x000D_Which sayeth softly:_x000D__x000D_We spread no snare;_x000D__x000D__x000D_Here dwell in safety,_x000D__x000D_Here dwell alone,_x000D__x000D_With a clear stream_x000D__x000D_And a mossy stone._x000D__x000D__x000D_Here the sun shineth_x000D__x000D_Most shadily;_x000D__x000D_Here is heard an echo_x000D__x000D_Of the far sea,_x000D__x000D_Though far off it be.

If we had no winter, the spring would not be so pleasant.

This hill crossed with broken pines and maples lumpy with the burial mounds of uprooted hemlocks (hurricane of '38) out of their rotting hearts generations rise trying once more to become the forest just beyond them tall enough to be called trees in their youth like aspen a bouquet of young beech is gathered they still wear last summer's leaves the lightest brown almost translucent how their stubbornness has decorated the winter woods.

For in spite of the snapdragons and the duty millers and the cherry blossoms, it was always winter.

All Nature seems at work. Slugs leave their lair_x000D__x000D_The bees are stirring, birds are on the wing,_x000D__x000D_And Winter slumbering in the open air,_x000D__x000D_Wears on his smiling face a dream of spring.

When the hounds of Spring are on winter's traces,_x000D__x000D_The mother of months in meadow or plain_x000D__x000D_Fills the shadows and windy places_x000D__x000D_With lisp of leaves and ripple of rain.

In winter I get up at night_x000D__x000D_And dress by yellow candle-light._x000D__x000D_In summer quite the other way,_x000D__x000D_I have to go to bed by day._x000D__x000D__x000D_I have to go to bed and see_x000D__x000D_The birds still hopping on the tree,_x000D__x000D_Or hear the grown-up people's feet_x000D__x000D_Still going past me in the street._x000D__x000D__x000D_And does it not seem hard to you,_x000D__x000D_When all the sky is clear and blue,_x000D__x000D_And I should like so much to play,_x000D__x000D_To have to go to bed by day?

What delights us in the spring is more a sensation than an appearance, more a hope than any visible reality. There is something in the softness of the air, in the lengthening of the days, in the very sounds and odors of the sweet time, that caresses us and consoles us after the rigorous weeks of winter.

For lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone; the flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtledove is heard in our land.

Winter's done, and April's in the skies,_x000D__x000D_Earth, look up with laughter in your eyes!

Well-apparel'd April on the heel_x000D__x000D_Of limping Winter treads.

The early mist had vanished and the fields lay like a silver shield under the sun. It was one of the days when the glitter of winter shines through a pale haze of spring.

No Winter lasts forever, no Spring skips its turn. April is a promise that May is bound to keep, and we know it.

Blackberry winter, the time when the hoarforst lies on the blackberry blossoms; without this frost the berries will not set. It is the forerunner of a rich harvest.

So Spring comes merry towards me here, but earns_x000D__x000D_No answering smile from me, whose life is twin'd_x000D__x000D_With the dead boughs that winter still must bind,_x000D__x000D_And whom today the Spring no more concerns._x000D__x000D_Behold, this crocus is a withering flame;_x000D__x000D_This snowdrop, snow; this apple-blossom's part_x000D__x000D_To breed the fruit that breeds the serpent's art._x000D__x000D_Nay, for these Spring-flowers, turn thy face from them,_x000D__x000D_Nor stay till on the year's last lily-stem_x000D__x000D_The white cup shrivels round the golden heart.

Let us learn to appreciate there will be times when the trees will be bare, and look forward to the time when we may pick the fruit.

People don't notice whether it's winter or summer when they're happy.

When I heated my home with oil, I used an average of 800 gallons a year. I have found that I can keep comfortably warm for an entire winter with slightly over half that quantity of beer.