George Crabbe Quotes

Stepped out into the cold, collar high, under the slate gray sky. The air was smoking and the streets were dry, and I wasn't joking when I said goodbye.

Is it Nice in your snowstorm- freezing your brain? Do you think that your face looks the same?

Today on the way home, it snows. Big, soft caressing flakes fall onto our skin like cold moths; the air fills with feathers.

I have always loved blizzards, if only because of the driving experience - which is definitely an acquired taste.

Swedish winters are not for the faint of heart.

My breath in the cold air was bleach that accidentally spilled on a black t-shirt.

No cloud above, no earth below, A universe of sky and snow.

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

Out of the bosom of the Air, Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken, Over the woodlands brown and bare, Over the harvest-fields forsaken, Silent, and soft, and slow Descends the snow.

I always enjoyed the hearty society of a snowstorm.

Winter in Maine is a time of alternating rest and frenzied activity.

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

It's often hilarious to me that I'm writing about Tonga or some tropical place and there's a blizzard outside and the cows are on their backs with their hooves in the air.

Even in winter an isolated patch of snow has a special quality.

We are not exposed to ice much in Florida.

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.

It is the life of the crystal, the architect of the flake, the fire of the frost, the soul of the sunbeam. This crisp winter air is full of it.

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.

I need a long, cold winter.

Everything in London is quite good, apart from the weather: it's cold and rainy there, and the winter is long.

The snow drifted down and down, all in ghostly silence, and lay thick and unbroken on the ground. It was a place of whites and blacks and greys. White towers and white snow and white statues, black shadows and black trees, the dark grey sky above. A pure world, Sansa thought. I do not belong here. Yet she stepped out all the same.

When the short days of winter came, dusk fell before we had well eaten our dinners. When we met in the street the houses had grown sombre. The space of sky above us was the colour of ever-changing violet and towards it the lamps of the street lifted their feeble lanterns. The cold air stung us and we played till our bodies glowed. Our shouts echoed in the silent street.

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.