His breath like silver arrows pierced the air,
The naked earth crouched shuddering at his feet,
His read more

His breath like silver arrows pierced the air,
The naked earth crouched shuddering at his feet,
His finger on all flowing waters sweet
Forbidding lay--motion nor sound was there:--
Nature was frozen dead,--and still and slow,
A winding sheet fell o'er her body fair,
Flaky and soft, from his wide wings of snow.

Every winter,
When the great sun has turned his face away,
The earth goes down into a read more

Every winter,
When the great sun has turned his face away,
The earth goes down into a vale of grief,
And fasts, and weeps, and shrouds herself in sables,
Leaving her wedding-garlands to decay--
Then leaps in spring to his returning kisses.

Up rose the wild old winter-king,
And shook his beard of snow;
"I hear the first young read more

Up rose the wild old winter-king,
And shook his beard of snow;
"I hear the first young hard-bell ring,
'Tis time for me to go!
Northward o'er the icy rocks,
Northward o'er the sea,
My daughter comes with sunny locks:
This land's too warm for me!"

Winter lies too long in country towns; hangs on until it is stale
and shabby, old and sullen.

Winter lies too long in country towns; hangs on until it is stale
and shabby, old and sullen.

The tendinous part of the mind, so to speak, is more developed in
winter; the fleshy, in summer. I read more

The tendinous part of the mind, so to speak, is more developed in
winter; the fleshy, in summer. I should say winter had given the
bone and sinew to literature, summer the tissues and the blood.

I grew up in New Hampshire. My closest neighbor was a mile away. The deer and the raccoons were my read more

I grew up in New Hampshire. My closest neighbor was a mile away. The deer and the raccoons were my friends. So I would spend time walking through the woods, looking for the most beautiful tropical thing that can survive the winter in the woods in New Hampshire.

Over the river and through the wood,
To grandfather's house we go;
The horse knows the way
read more

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.

When now, unsparing as the scourge of war,
Blasts follow blasts and groves dismantled roar;
Around their read more

When now, unsparing as the scourge of war,
Blasts follow blasts and groves dismantled roar;
Around their home the storm-pinched cattle lows,
No nourishment in frozen pasture grows;
Yet frozen pastures every morn resound
With fair abundance thund'ring to the ground.

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

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