John Ruskin Quotes

In Moscow I feel most comfortable. I'm used to four different seasons; it's difficult for people in London to understand. People brought up in Russia like my kids want to play in the snow.

How the snow falls in the north! Flake on flake falling incessantly, until the small dingles are almost on a level with the uplands. It throws itself on the leaves of autumn, and holds them down in security from the strongest winds.

Mainly I've been back to my books and writings and being nice and quiet and lazy. As I'm writing this, the radio says there's a foot of snow falling on Long Island. I really love snow and wish I could take a long walk in it right now.

In the bleak midwinter Frosty wind made moan, Earth stood hard as iron, Water like a stone; Snow had fallen, Snow on snow, Snow on snow, In the bleak midwinter, Long ago.

Where's the snow That fell the year that's fled--where's the snow?

The stiff rails were softened to swan's-down, and still fluttered down the snow.

The snow had begun in the gloaming, and busily all the night had been heaping field and highway with a silence deep and white.

And finally Winter, with its bitin', whinin' wind, and all the land will be mantled with snow.

The oil sequence was about two or three days. It was very cold and was snowing.

I love cold weather.

A lot of people like snow. I find it to be an unnecessary freezing of water.

I grew up in Chicago, and there was always snow. In Los Angeles there never was, so we would always import snow!

I think snow is so evocative and has such a powerful atmosphere.

We have had a very severe frost and deep snow this month. My thermometer was one day fourteen degrees and a half below the freezing point, within doors.

Snow is like a manic pixie dream girl: fun and whimsical when you encounter it only through the barrier of a movie screen - but absolute misery to have to put up with in real life.

It was never a thing that bothered me, being cold or if there's snow. It never fazed me.

I'm not a cold-weather guy.

It is deep January. The sky is hard. The stalks are firmly rooted in ice.

With the coldest winter ever recorded, with snow setting record levels up and down the coast, the Nobel committee should take the Nobel Prize back from Al Gore.

The third day comes a frost, a killing frost.

That grand old poem called Winter

That no Flake of [snow] fall on you or them - is a wish that would be a Prayer, were Emily not a Pagan.