#winter

That last winter was a tragic story and I got no personal honour out of it but I was a witness to it. ↗

— Laurie Lee

#honour #i #last #out #personal

Winter is not a season, it's an occupation. ↗

— Sinclair Lewis

#season #winter

When I climb a fourteener, a 14,000-foot/4,260-meter peak, in the winter by myself, I leave an itinerary and information about where my vehicle will be parked and the name of the county sheriff to contact in case I don't get home. ↗

— Aron Ralston

#case #climb #contact #county #get

Once winter sets in I must have the sun and warmth. I need to be in the sun - I'm a true island baby. ↗

— Narciso Rodriguez

#i #island #must #need #once

O, wind, if winter comes, can spring be far behind? ↗

— Percy Bysshe Shelley

#comes #far #spring #wind #winter

She threw one leg over his and straddled his lap, then reached under herself and found him again. He tore his mouth from hers. “Wait.” “No.” She looked him frankly in the eyes. “I don’t care if you spill at once. I need you inside me now.” His beautiful eyes widened and then narrowed. “You’ll not always hold the reins, my lady.” She smiled sweetly. “Naturally not, but I do now. ↗

— Elizabeth Hoyt

#isabel #thief-of-shadows #winter #beauty

Love for the beauty of the soul. I shall love you always. When the flower of life has gone, ever I shall find you. When all is lost and winter comes, I shall be your spring time. And memory fades and wilts then, I shall always find you.... I shall always find you.... ↗

— Laurel A. Rockefeller

#elendir #find #flower #grief #hope

Everybody was dying, or already dead, or leaving other people, and the year was dying into winter, and the only thing to do was make some noise. ↗

— Marina Endicott

#winter #death

The past was like a bad dream; the future was all happy holiday as I moved Southwards week by week, easily, lazily, lingering as long as I dared, but always heeding the call! ↗

— Kenneth Grahame

#migration #south #summer #winter #dreams

L.A. kills people.' Jacaranda said. 'You're lucky you're leaving. You'll be able to write.' She looked paler, going through another depression, smoking in bed in her lilac room. The walls were the color of her veins. She was getting too thin, even for the modeling. . .Jacaranda died last winter when the flowering trees were bare. You couldn't even tell which ones once cried the purple blossoms she named herself after. ↗

— Francesca Lia Block

#friendship #winter #death