Quotes
Quotes about Snow
Let firm, well hammer'd soles protect thy feet Through freezing snows, and rains, and soaking sleet; Should the big last extend the shoe too wide, Each stone will wrench the unwary step aside; The sudden turn may stretch the swelling vein, The cracking joint unhinge, or ankle sprain; And when too short the modish shoes are worn, You'll judge the seasons by your shooting corn.
These be three silent things: The Falling snow... the hour before the dawn... the mouth of one just dead.
As I saw fair Chloris walk alone, The feather'd snow came softly down, As Jove, descending from his tow'r To court her in a silver show'r. The wanton snow flew to her breast, As little birds into their nest; But o'ercome with whiteness there, For grief dissolv'd into a tear. Thence falling on her garment hem, To deck her, froze into a gem.
Lo. sifted through the winds that blow, Down comes the soft and silent snow, White petals from the flowers that grow In the cold atmosphere.
Announced by all the trumpets of the sky, Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields, Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven, And veils the farmhouse at the garden's end. The sled and traveller stopped, the courier's feet Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed In a tumultuous privacy of storm.
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.
Where's the snow That fell the year that's fled--where's the snow?
Our Lady of the Snows. [Lat., Notre Dames des Neiges.]
But where are the snows of last year? That was the greatest concern of Villon, the Parisian poet. [Fr., Mais ou sont les neiges d'antan? C'estoit le plus grand soucy qu'eust Villon, le poete parisien.]
If but a dozen French Were there in arms, they would be as a call To train ten thousand English to their side, Or as a little snow, tumbled about, Anon becomes a mountain.
Come, night; come, Romeo; come, thou day in night; For thou wilt lie upon the wings of night Whiter than new snow upon a raven's back.
O that I were a mockery king of snow, Standing before the sun of Bolingbroke To melt myself away in water drops!
Lawn as white as driven snow, Cyprus black as e'er was crow, Gloves as sweet as damask roses, Masks for faces and for noses, Bugle bracelet, necklace amber, Perfume for a lady's chamber, Golden quoifs and stomachers For my lads to give their dears, Pins and poking-sticks of steel, What maids lack from head to heel.
But where are the snows of yester year? [Fr., Mais ou sont les neiges d'antan?]
Oh! the snow, the beautiful snow, Filling the sky and earth below, Over the housetops, over the street, Over the heads of the people you meet. Dancing, Flirting, Skimming along.
If there comes a little thaw, Still the air is chill and raw, Here and there a patch of snow, Dirtier than the ground below, Dribbles down a marshy flood; Ankle-deep you stick in mud In the meadows while you sing, "This is Spring."
For many years I was self-appointed inspector of snow-storms and rain-storms and did my duty faithfully.
The swallow is come! The swallow is come! O, fair are the seasons, and light Are the days that she brings, With her dusky wings, And her bosom snowy white!
And over the pond are sailing Two swans all white as snow; Sweet voices mysteriously wailing Pierce through me as onward they go. They sail along, and a ringing Sweet melody rises on high; And when the swans begin singing, They presently must die.
The stately-sailing swan Gives out his snowy plumage to the gale; And, arching proud his neck, with oary feet Bears forward fierce, and guards his osier isle, Protective of his young.
From what far, heavenly height of hope Didst thou descend to light our way, Cleaving with flash of snowy robe Time's dusky veil of twilight gray?
Stars will blossom in the darkness, Violets bloom beneath the snow.
Sunshine is delicious, rain is refreshing, wind braces up, snow is exhilarating; there is no such thing as bad weather, only different kinds of good weather.
Over the river and through the wood, To grandfather's house we go; The horse knows the way To carry the sleigh, Through the white and drifted snow.
Announced by all the trumpets of the sky, Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields, Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven, And veils the farmhouse at the garden's end. The sled and traveller stopped, the courier's feet Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed In a tumultuous privacy of storm.
