T. S. Eliot Quotes

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.

The corne hides it self in the snow, as an old man in furrs.

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

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

I wonder if the snow loves the trees and fields, that it kisses them so gently? And then it covers them up snug, you know, with a white quilt; and perhaps it says "Go to sleep, darlings, till the summer comes again.

What is the world, O soldiers? It is I, I, this incessant snow, This northern sky.

The winds were warm about us, the whole earth seemed the wealthier for our love.

No one thinks of winter when the grass is green.

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

We discover a new world every time we see the earth again after it has been covered for a season with snow.

Tread Lightly, she is near Under the snow, Speak gently, she can hear The daisies grow.

Or like the snow falls in the river, A moment white-then melts for ever . . .

The Sun, the hearth of affection and life, pours burning love on the delighted earth.

A lonely fir-tree is standing On a northern barren height; It sleeps, and the ice and snow-drift Cast round it a garment of white.

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.

In what bold relief stand out the lives of all walkers of the snow! The snow is a great tell-tale, and blabs as effectually as it obliterates. I go into the woods, and know all that has happened. I cross the fields, and if only a mouse has visited his neighbor, the fact is chronicled.

If flurries be the food of quests, snow on.

Meek Nature's evening comment on the shows That for oblivion take their daily birth From all the fuming vanities of earth.

I frequently tramped eight or ten miles through the deepest snow to keep an appointment with a beechtree, or a yellow birch, or an old acquaintance among the pines.

Dying is so simple. A fleeting moment of suffering. In the blink of an eye you are over the threshold, into another world. No more pain, no more fears. You sleep so well there. Dying is like rubbing snow together, setting fire to a whole winter of cold and ice.

Winter is the time for comfort, for good food and warmth, for the touch of a friendly hand and for a talk beside the fire: it is the time for home. It is no season in which to wander the world as if one were the wind blowing aimlessly along the streets without a place to rest, without food, and without time meaning anything to one, just as time means nothing to the wind.

In this world, only winter is certain