The sensation reminds him of the first snow of winter, for those first few hours when everything is blanketed in white, soft and quiet.
Sweet Skepticism of the Heart That knows and does not know And tosses like a Fleet of Balm Affronted by the snow.
I shoved him off the snowmobile. He landed on his back in the snow. "Love is a brat, you think? No, love id fine. You are the brat, you spoiled, rotten brat!
The Snow-drop, Winter's timid child, Awakes to life, bedew'd with tears.
I read about a guy in Michigan this winter who was cruising along on his snow mobile. "Whoo hoo!" Didn't see a barbed wire fence. FOOM--cut his head right off. And I'll be honest with you, my first thought was. . . That's how I want to go. Having the time of your life, "whoo hoo!" FOOM. I want the last thought in my head to be, 'Hey, check out that headless snow mobile driver. He's got a jacket just like mine. '
The figures of the past go cloaked. They walk in mist and rain and snow And go, go slowly, but they go.
. . . sunlight is (life and day are)only loaned:whereas night is given(night and death and the rain are given;and given is how beautifully snow)
I've never heard of that anthology [Vance Randolph, Pissing in the Snow], but you can be sure I'll buy it now.
The vapour becomes snow, then water, then Ganga; but when it is vapour, there is no Ganga, and when it is water, we think of no vapour in it. The idea of creation or change is inseparably connected with will. So long as we perceive this world in motion, we have to conceive will behind it.
A city where everyone seemed to live in a bungalow on a broad avenue lined with palm, pepper or eucalyptus trees, where there was never any snow.
I've read that if an avalanche buries you and you're lying there underneath all that snow, you can't tell which way is up or down. You want to dig yourself out but pick the wrong way, and you dig yourself to your own demise.
My picture, Fifth Avenue, Winter is the result of a three hours' stand during a fierce snow-storm on February 22nd 1893, awaiting the proper moment. My patience was duly rewarded. Of course, the result contained an element of chance, as I might have stood there for hours without succeeding in getting the desired pictures.
Snow endures but for a season, and joy comes with the morning.
For God took a handful of blizzard snow, blew on it and created the horse.
And so The Snow Queen also became a story about the need to seek equilibrium, in our own lives, with the natural world, even within the universe at large.
Tender, too, is the silence of human feet. You have but to pass a season amongst the barefooted to find that man, who, shod, makes so much ado, is naturally as silent as snow.
The wastes of snow on the hill were ghostly in the moonlight. The stars were piercingly bright.
The hollowness was in his arms and the world was snowing.
I wanna survive an avalanche. I wanna be one of those people a dog finds buried under a ton of snow, almost dying of starvation.
Now it would be foolish and impossible to try and prevent the manufacture of films containing Canadian snow scenes; but there is no vestige of a doubt that when exhibited overseas they have a detrimental effect of immigration. . . Everything that can be done should be done, to encourage the circulation of screen pictures that demonstrate that snow scenes and dog-trains are but a minor phase in Canadian life.