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Winter Quotes

Browse 2200 quotes about Winter.

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Winter Quotes

“Early Morning Walks & the first flush of Winter Sunshine. It's incredibly difficult to wake up in the mornings of cold and cozy winter days, but somehow if you manage to get up and ask your mind to take a walk in the woods, the sunshine and warmth that catches your soul is breathtakingly beautiful, beyond beautiful. Each time a cold breeze touches you by while your heart is pulsating from the walk, you feel a Smile of calm widening in each and every breath of your bones, and when you catch a glimpse of the Morning Sun, and let the rays embrace your core, you know it was all worth it, the waking up and the walking on, so much worth it all. And then you Smile knowing, isn't the walk of Life exactly the same? When you wake up each day to walk a little more, to get wrapped in the warmth of Life all while cutting across the cold of Life's dark nights to find your way to the freshness of day, the Morning Sun of Life. And oh boy, it's just so much worth it, so much worth it all. To staying alive through the wilderness of Life. Stay in your Aura! Love & Light, always - Debatrayee”

LifeInspirationalHopeLife QuotesWinterPositive ThoughtsWaking Up In The MorningMorning WalkWinter MorningsWinter Sun
Author:Debatrayee Banerjee
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“The Merry Chrismouse by Stewart Stafford What a time for the merry Chrismouse, Making toys in his workshop/house, Everyone contributes, even his spouse, With Christmas cheer, no one will douse. A sprig of holly for a present tree, Blizzard snow is grated cheese, The kindly rodent set to please, When he comes on Christmas Eve. Nuts and seeds on their button table, Playing games and telling fables, Discarded tinsel on the wall of gable, In midwinter's icy spell unstable. A time for amnesia that felines exist, Kindness and joy at their fingertips, Baby mice excitedly make lists, To have many gifts when they insist. © Stewart Stafford, 2021. All rights reserved.”

WinterChristmasMiceHolidaysMerry ChristmasHappy HolidaysMouseChristmastimeChristmas PoemHappy Christmas
Author:Stewart Stafford
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“I walk into the water and it’s ten degrees cooler than the air, absolutely freezing freezing cold, it makes my breath come all fast and I can only take in little gulps of air. I feel the sting of the cut on my leg as the salt gets in it. And I push further into it, so that the water comes up to my chest, then my shoulders and now I really can’t breathe properly, like I’m wearing a corset. I feel tiny fireworks explode in my head and on the surface of my skin and all the bad thoughts loosen, so I can look at them more easily. I put my head under, shaking it to encourage the bad thoughts to float away. A wave comes, and the water fills my mouth. It’s so salty it makes me gag and when I gag I swallow more water and don’t manage to breathe and more water goes in, and it’s in my nose too and each time I open my mouth for air more water comes in instead, great big salty gulps of it. I can feel the movement of the water under my feet and it feels like it’s tugging me somewhere, trying to take me with it. It’s like my body knows something I don’t because it’s fighting for me, my arms and legs thrashing out. I wonder if this is a bit what drowning is like. Then I wonder if I am drowning.”

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Book:The Guest List
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“February Soup by Stewart Stafford The February fog, Turns all into blobs, Orange street lights, To Valentine's Night. When the wind strays, Fog's mantle is grey, Laying misty bouquets, On barren, muddied days. The daffodils of March, Can cheer up Plutarch, Adorned in Kelly green, No sign of foggy screens. © Stewart Stafford, 2023. All rights reserved.”

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Author:Stewart Stafford
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“Old Friend, New Adventure by Stewart Stafford Snow crept down, surprising, Before the sun strolled, rising. Monochrome in palatial white, Teeth chattering in moonlight. Overnight, all became frozen. A cloud nine expedition chosen. This boy came flying out of doors, As a cat sprang with cold paws. A man shadowed me in the dark. As I sculpted him in the park, Rolling a snowball until it grew, And a snowman stood, born anew. With a carrot nose and coal eyes, Gazing at me through rictus guise, This bright curve in an unlit sky A silent friend to thaw the lies. Then fleeing back inside, To hot chocolate by the fireside, Numb, red hands slowly came alive, The joy of life, awoke and arrived. © Stewart Stafford, 2023. All rights reserved.”

WinterSnowChristmasSnowmanWinter PoetryChristmas PoemThe SnowmanFrosty The SnowmanSnowmenWinter Wonderland
Author:Stewart Stafford
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“The nights again will be on fire, like this, - forever, I’ll look, without you, freshness for; beneath the eternal ancient Populus trees, and freshness I’ll find in the night, above all… And winter will come later, once more, again, when vile winds will howl right outside, being mean, yet there, in the heart, with no refrain, I will have softness, dreamlike, clean…”

ForeverEternalWinterAncientTreesFreshnessSoftnessOn FireAbove AllPopulus
Book:На чист Български...: Pristine Bulgarian sayings...
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“Daylight would have shown a wilderness weathered and blowzy, a wanton that had lived her summer too fast and too greedily. It would have shown the white birches pale and shivering in a sudden ague, and here and there an ash or a sumac burning red, like a hectic spot, where the first frosts already had set the marks of their galloping consumption on the cheek of the forest, giving warning of the time when the white plague of the winter would make a massacre of all this present glory and turn the trees to naked skeletons and stretch a bony bare cadaver on every steeper hillside to bleach there until the snows covered things up. But now the kindly nighttime had all signs and threats of approaching death, so that each shriveled speckled leaf, as revealed and traced in the waning light, seemed flawless — a perfect part of a perfect tapestry.”

WinterWinter Is Coming
Book:On an Island that Cost Twenty-Four Dollars
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“The sun was setting on the horizon. Mother Nature had painted the sky in hues of pink, purple and orange. Our feet slipped and slid as we walked on the sand, breathing salt air. Waves crashed against the shore rhythmically and gusts of wind howled around us. Families could be seen strolling along the beach despite the frigid winter wind that was blowing. In the distance, a group of orphaned children could be seen flying a kite, unaware of the cruelty that exists in the world.”

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Book:Train to Mumbai
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“The Dead of Winter by Stewart Stafford In truth, winter is the dead's season, Their graveyard chill touches Earth, The skeleton moon's danse macabre, As the darkened Sun heralds rebirth. Wild hunters of Christmas Eve skies, Mighty Odin or Arthur leading all, Hellhounds, fiery steeds, chase, To feast in a Valhalla or Camelot hall. Assemble at the hearth, my kindred, Share unnerving tales of gothic fright, Raised pulses as spectral guests join us, Frayed nerves spiked on this haunted night. © 2024, Stewart Stafford. All rights reserved.”

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Author:Stewart Stafford
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“Our favourite amusement during that winter was tobogganing. In places the shore of the lake rises abruptly from the water's edge. Down these steep slopes we used to coast. We would get on our toboggan, a boy would give us a shove, and off we went! Plunging through drifts, leaping hollows, swooping down upon the lake, we would shoot across its gleaming surface to the opposite bank. What joy! What exhilarating madness! For one wild, glad moment we snapped the chain that binds us to earth, and joining hands with the winds we felt ourselves divine!”

WinterSledding
Book:The Story of My Life
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“She looked at the produce stalls, a row of jewels in a case, the colors more subtle in the winter, a Pantone display consisting only of greens, without the raspberries and plums of summer, the pumpkins of autumn. But if anything, the lack of variation allowed her mind to slow and settle, to see the small differences between the almost-greens and creamy whites of a cabbage and a cauliflower, to wake up the senses that had grown lazy and satisfied with the abundance of the previous eight months. Winter was a chromatic palate-cleanser, and she had always greeted it with the pleasure of a tart lemon sorbet, served in a chilled silver bowl between courses.”

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Book:The Lost Art of Mixing
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“More than any other season, winter requires a kind of metronome that ticks away its darkest beats, giving us a melody to follow into spring. The year will move on no matter what, but by paying attention to it, feeling its beat, and noticing the moments of transition—perhaps even taking time to think about what we want from the next phase in the year—we can get the measure of it.”

WinterTransitions In LifeRhythm Of Living
Book:Wintering: The Power of Rest and Retreat in Difficult Times
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“Every winter he'd be out here plowing with the big red blade mounted on the Ford, and when he was done opening up his drive, he'd by God get cracking on the neighbors' spreads down the road. Arnie and Ina, good Vikings from Minnesota. The Rays over to the east--they had a kid. Couldn't be trapped out here in snow. That's how America worked. Used to work. That was what made things function. It was all obvious come winter. Some folks wouldn't pitch in with a snow shovel if they saw a naked one-hundred-year-old lady out there struggling with a drift.”

HelpingWinterSnowNeighborsPlowingBeing NeighborlySnowplowing
Book:The Water Museum
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“But at the end of February, out of a cold black north a dozen meandering snowflakes fell. They drifted about the air like thrums - blown from the raw edges of the coming storm. Next morning, colour had gone from the world. Shapes, sounds, the energies and acuteness of life, were muffled in the dull white that covered both earth and sky. No sun came through. The weeks dragged on with no lifting of the pallor. The snow melted a little and froze again with smears of dirt marbelling its surfaces. To the northward of the dykes it was lumped in obstinate seams, at the cottage doors trodden and caked, matted with refuse, straws and stones and clots of dung carried in about on clorted boots. The ploughs lay idle, gaunt, like half-sunk among the furrows.”

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Book:The Quarry Wood
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“I was free with every road as my home. No limitations and no commitments. But then summer passed and winter came and I fell short for safety. I fell for its spell, slowly humming me to sleep, because I was tired and small, too weak to take or handle those opinions and views, attacking me from every angle. Against my art, against my self, against my very way of living. I collected my thoughts, my few possessions and built isolated walls around my values and character. I protected my own definition of beauty and success like a treasure at the bottom of the sea, for no one saw what I saw, or felt the same as I did, and so I wanted to keep to myself. You hide to protect yourself.”

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Book:Another Vagabond Lost To Love: Berlin Stories on Leaving & Arriving
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“Nothing comes as an accomplishment instantly. Success does not come overnight. Patience is the key! Grow up and be the tree; but remember it takes dry and wet seasons to become a fruit bearer, achiever and impact maker!”

SuccessTreeSummerPatienceImpactFruitWinterFood For ThoughtIsraelmore AyivorAccomplishmentInstantAutumnTake TimeNothingSeasonAchieverTake Your TimeGrow UpDon T RushBear FruitsOvernightInstantlyDry SeasonImpact WebBe PatienceFrutsWet Season
Book:The Great Hand Book of Quotes
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