Wallace Stevens Quotes

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

Come, ye cold winds, at January's call, On whistling wings, and with white flakes bestrew The earth.

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

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.

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.

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 woods where snow is thick, bars of sunlight lay like pale fire.

I am a book of snow, a spacious hand, an open meadow, a circle that waits, I belong to the earth and its winter.

When the cold comes to New England it arrives in sheets of sleet and ice. In December, the wind wraps itself around bare trees and twists in between husbands and wives asleep in their beds. It shakes the shingles from the roofs and sifts through cracks in the plaster. The only green things left are the holly bushes and the old boxwood hedges in the village, and these are often painted white with snow. Chipmunks and weasels come to nest in basements and barns; owls find their way into attics. At night,the dark is blue and bluer still, as sapphire of night.

A Christmas frost had come at midsummer; a white December storm had whirled over June; ice glazed the ripe apples, drifts crushed the blowing roses; on hayfield and cornfield lay a frozen shroud: lanes which last night blushed full of flowers, to-day were pathless with untrodden snow; and the woods, which twelve hours since waved leafy and flagrant as groves between the tropics, now spread, waste, wild, and white as pine-forests in wintry Norway.

A light snow, a snow so faint and small-bodied that it seems nothing more than a manifestation of the cold.

Winter garden, the moon thinned to a thread, insects singing.

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

They were playing old Bob Dylan, more than perfect for narrow Village streets close to Christmas and the snow whirling down in big feathery flakes, the kind of winter where you want to be walking down a city street with your arm around a girl like on the old record cover.

The sensation reminds him of the first snow of winter, for those first few hours when everything is blanketed in white, soft and quiet.

On cold December fragrant chaplets blow, And heavy harvests nod beneath the snow.

Is it snowing where you are? All the world that I see from my tower is draped in white and the flakes are coming down as big as pop-corns. It's late afternoon - the sun is just setting (a cold yellow colour) behind some colder violet hills, and I am up in my window seat using the last light to write to you.

I'm a winter girl. I like coming out when things are desolate and everybody's ready to slit their wrists.