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O wind, If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind? - Percy Bysshe Shelley, Ode to the West Wind (pt. V) Winter does not work only on a broad scale; he is careful in trifles. - Alexander Smith In winter, when the dismal rain Came down in slanting lines, And Wind, that grand old harper, smote His thunder-harp of pines. - Alexander Smith, A Life Drama (sc. 2) Green moss shines there with ice encased; The long grass bends its spear-like form; And lovely is the silvery scene When faint the sun-beams smile. - Robert Southey Lastly came Winter cloathed all in frize, Chattering his teeth for cold that did him chill; Whilst on his hoary beard his breath did freese, And the dull drops, that from his purpled bill As from a limebeck did adown distill: In his right hand a tipped staffe he held, With which his feeble steps he stayed still; For he was faint with cold, and weak with eld; That scarce his loosed limbes he hable was to weld. - Edmund Spenser, The Faerie Queene (canto VII, Legend of Constancie, st. 31) Under the snowdrifts the blossoms are sleeping, Dreaming their dreams of sunshine and June, Down in the hush of their quiet they're keeping Trills from the throstle's wild summer-sung tune. - Harriet Prescott Spofford, Under the Snowdrifts The silent snow possessed the earth, and calmly fell our Christmas-eve. - Lord Alfred Tennyson All nature feels the renovating force Of winter, only to the thoughtless eye In ruin seen. The frost-contracted glebe Draws in abundant vegetable soul, And gathers vigor for the coming year. A stronger glow sits on the lively cheek Of ruddy fire; and luculent along The purer rivers flow: their sullen deeps, Transparent, open to the shepherd's gaze And murmur hoarser at the fixing frost. - James Thomson (1) Miserable they! Who, here entangled in the gathering ice, Take their last look of the descending sun, While, full of death, and fierce with tenfold frost, The long, long night, incumbent o'er their heads, Falls horrible. - James Thomson (1) Now, when the cheerless empire of the sky To Capricorn the Centaur Archer yields, And fierce Aquarius stains th' inverted year; Hung o'er the farthest verge of heaven, the sun Scarce spreads o'er ether the dejected day; Faint are his gleams and ineffectual shoot His struggling rays, in horizontal lines. - James Thomson (1) O winter, ruler of the inverted year! - James Thomson (1) 'Tis done! dread winter spreads his latest glooms, and reigns tremendous o'er the conquered year. - James Thomson (1) Winter binds our strengthened bodies in a cold embrace constringent. - James Thomson (1) See, Winter comes, to rule the varied year, Sullen and sad, with all his rising train; Vapors, and Clouds, and Storms. - James Thomson (1), Seasons--Winter (l. 1) Dread Winter spreads his latest glooms, And reigns, tremendous, o'er the conquer'd Year. How dead the vegetable kingdom lies! How dumb the tuneful! Horror wide extends His desolate domain. - James Thomson (1), Seasons--Winter (l. 1,024) Through the hush'd air the whitening Shower descends, At first thin wavering; till at last the Flakes Fall broad, and wide, and fast, dimming the day With a continual flow. The cherished Fields Put on their winter-robe of purest white, 'Tis brightness all; save where the new Snow melts Along the mazy current. - James Thomson (1), Seasons--Winter (l. 229) Every leaf and twig was * * * covered with a sparkling ice armor. Even the grasses in exposed fields were hung with innumerable diamond pendants, which jingled merrily when brushed by the foot of the traveler. * * * It was as if some super-incumbent stratum of the earth had been removed in the night, exposing to light a bed of untarnished crystals. - Henry David Thoreau And Autumn in his leafless bowers is waiting for the winter's snow. - John Greenleaf Whittier Make we here our camp of winter; And, through sleet and snow, Pitchy knot and beechen splinter On our hearth shall glow. Here, with mirth to lighten duty, We shall lack alone Woman's smile and girlhood's beauty, Childhood's lisping tone. - John Greenleaf Whittier, Lumbermen (st. 8) What miracle of weird transforming Is this wild work of frost and light, This glimpse of glory infinite? - John Greenleaf Whittier, The Pageant (st. 8) Stern Winter loves a dirge-like sound. - William Wordsworth, On the Power of Sound (st. 12) I prefer winter and fall, when you feel the bone structure in the landscape. . . . - Andrew Wyeth, quoted by Richard Meryman in "The Art of Andrew Wyeth", 1973 Displaying page 3 of 3 for this topic: << Prev 1 2 [3]
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