#winter

I was raised in California, so this whole New York winter thing is completely new for me. I've already justified buying seven coats! ↗

— Blake Lively

#buying #california #coats #completely #i

Sundays too my father got up early and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold, then with cracked hands that ached from labor in the weekday weather made banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him. I'd wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking. When the rooms were warm, he'd call, and slowly I would rise and dress, fearing the chronic angers of that house, speaking indifferently to him, who had driven out the cold and polished my good shoes as well. What did I know, what did I know of love's austere and lonely offices? ↗

— Robert Hayden

#anger

I made some friends who are still friends, and this is the city of my birth. I love living here when there's a reason to, other than just moving here. I still don't like the winters here, but it's an amazing city and I love it. ↗

— Michael McKean

#birth #city #friends #here #i

My old grandmother always used to say, Summer friends will melt away like summer snows, but winter friends are friends forever. ↗

— George R.R. Martin

#friendship #george-r-r-martin #summer #winter #friendship

When icicles hang by the wall, And Dick the shepherd blows his nail, And Tom bears logs into the hall, And milk comes frozen home in pail, When blood is nipp'd, and ways be foul, Then nightly sings the staring owl, To-whit! To-who!—a merry note, While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. When all aloud the wind doe blow, And coughing drowns the parson's saw, And birds sit brooding in the snow, And Marian's nose looks red and raw, When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl, Then nightly sings the staring owl, To-whit! To-who!—a merry note, While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. ↗

— William Shakespeare

#winter #love

Gripped with bitter cold, ice-locked, Petersburg burned in delirium. One knew: out there, invisible behind the curtain of fog, the red and yellow columns, spires, and hoary gates and fences crept on tiptoe, creaking and shuffling. A fevered, impossible, icy sun hung in the fog - to the left, to the right, above, below - a dove over a house on fire. From the delirium-born, misty world, dragon men dived up into the earthly world, belched fog - heard in the misty world as words, but here becoming nothing - round white puffs of smoke. The dragon men dived up and disappeared again into the fog. And trolleys rushed screeching out of the earthly world into the unknown. ("The Dragon") ↗

— Yevgeny Zamyatin

#winter #men

The days were longer then (for time, like money, is measured by our needs), when summer afternoons were spacious, and the clock ticked slowly in the winter evenings. ↗

— George Eliot Middlemarch

#middlemarch #summer #time #winter #money

Song falls silent, music is dumb, But the air burns with their fragrance, And white winter, on its knees, Observes everything with reverent attention. ↗

— Anna Akhmatova

#music

Vodka goes well with a wintery perspective. Nothing else provokes such presentiments of falling snow except, for some, the communist seizure of the state. ↗

— Michèle Bernstein

#communist #seizure #snow #vodka #winter

They urged me to take up winter quarters at the forks of the Platt, stating that if I attempted to advance further until spring, I would endanger the lives of my whole party. ↗

— William Henry Ashley

#attempted #endanger #forks #further #i