You May Also Like / View all maxioms
These Winter nights against my window-pane
Nature with busy pencil draws designs
Of ferns and blossoms and read more
These Winter nights against my window-pane
Nature with busy pencil draws designs
Of ferns and blossoms and fine spray of pines,
Oak-leaf and acorn and fantastic vines,
Which she will make when summer comes again--
Quaint arabesques in argent, flat and cold,
Like curious Chinese etchings.
Winter is a season of recovery and preparation.
Winter is a season of recovery and preparation.
Winter is the time for comfort, for good food and warmth, for the touch of a friendly hand and for read more
Winter is the time for comfort, for good food and warmth, for the touch of a friendly hand and for a talk beside the fire: it is the time for home.
Sometimes our fate resembles a fruit tree in winter. Who would think that those branches would turn green again and read more
Sometimes our fate resembles a fruit tree in winter. Who would think that those branches would turn green again and blossom, but we hope it, we know it.
People ask me what I do in winter when there's no baseball. I'll tell you what I do. I stare read more
People ask me what I do in winter when there's no baseball. I'll tell you what I do. I stare out the window and wait for spring.
Look! the massy trunks
Are cased in the pure crystal; each light spray,
Nodding and tinkling in read more
Look! the massy trunks
Are cased in the pure crystal; each light spray,
Nodding and tinkling in the breath of heaven,
Is studded with its trembling water-drops,
That glimmer with an amethystine light.
Come, see the north-wind's masonry,
Out of an unseen quarry evermore
Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer
read more
Come, see the north-wind's masonry,
Out of an unseen quarry evermore
Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer
Curves his white bastions with projected roof
Round every windward stake, or tree, or door.
Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work
So fanciful, so savage, naught cares he
For number or proportion.
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.
On a lone winter evening, when the frost
Has wrought a silence.
On a lone winter evening, when the frost
Has wrought a silence.
