Oliver Goldsmith Quotes

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

In Boston serpents whistle at the cold.

There are two seasons in Scotland: June and Winter.

Black frost. The ground is hard, the air tastes bitter. Your stars cluster in evil signs.

I don't think I could survive in cold places.

And for the season it was winter, and they that know the winters of that country know them to be sharp and violent, and subject to cruel and fierce storms.

Canadian winters are long. Life is hard and so is ice.

I could feel the winter shaking my bones and banging my teeth together.

Winter's not gone yet, if the wild geese fly that way.

Winter, a bad guest, sitteth with me at home; blue are my hands with his friendly handshaking

So fair, so cold; like a morning of pale spring still clinging to winter's chill.

Boston has two seasons: August and winter.

The year's in wane; There is nothing adorning; The night has no eve, And the day has no morning; Cold winter gives warning!

With luck, it might even snow for us.

The surface of the moon is like nothing here on Earth! It's totally lacking any evidence of life. It has lots of fine, talcum-powderlike dust mixed with a complete variety of pebbles, rocks, and boulders. Many pebbles, fewer rocks, and even fewer boulders naturally make up its surface. The dust is a very fine, overall dark gray. And with no air molecules to separate the dust, it clings together like cement.

Nothing burns like the cold.

It was bitingly cold up here,and the wind pulled at his clothes like an insistent lover.

Cities are natural, that's why they're everywhere. It's not like there's only one city, and everybody's like 'What the f**k is this?' No, cities are all over the place. They're natural. You know what's not natural? You, in the middle of the mountains, in the middle of the winter.

January brings the snow / Makes your feet and fingers glow / February's ice and sleet / Freeze the toes right off your feet / Welcome March with wintry wind / Would thou wer't not so unkind / April brings the sweet spring showers / On and on for hours and hours.

A cold coming we had of it, Just the worst time of the year For a journey, and such a long journey: The ways deep and the weather sharp, The very dead of winter.

A cold and searching wind drives away all contagion, and nothing can withstand it but what has a virtue in it, and accordingly, whatever we meet with in cold and bleak places, as the tops of mountains, we respect for a sort of sturdy innocence, a Puritan toughness. All things beside seem to be called in for shelter, and what stays out must be part of the original frame of the universe, and of such valor as God himself.