End Of February Quotes & Sayings

In February 1912, ancient China came to an end when the last of three millennia of Chinese emperors abdicated.
Imagine twentieth-century Italy coming to terms with the fall of the Roman empire or Egypt with the last pharaoh abdicating in 1912. For China, the last century has been a period of transition - dramatic change and perpetual revolution. — Mark Kurlansky

By the end of February, nearly one hundred residents of New York were dead, killed by redistilled industrial alcohols. Brooklyn district attorney John Ruston said that the poisoned alcohol came from steamers, from rum runners in smaller boats, and as always from Brooklyn, that well-known home of creative alcohol reengineering. — Anonymous

Toward the end of February 1954, James Beard was at work in his Greenwich Village kitchen doing what he most loved to do: cooking delicious meals. — Laura Shapiro

There was something tender and gentle about our love, something a little shy, that was like early spring. — Sheldon Vanauken

We can safely make one prophecy: whatever the outcome of this war, the British Empire is at an end. It has been mortally wounded. The future of the British people is to die of hunger and tuberculosis in their cursed island. (4th February 1945) — Adolf Hitler

The reason God made February short a few days was because he knew that by the time people came to the end of it they would die if they had to stand one more blasted day. — Katherine Paterson

It is all but inevitable that we occupy a favoured location, one of the rare neighbourhoods where by-laws allow the emergence of intelligent life.' No anthropic principle needed. — Matt Ridley

It was towards the end of February, in that year, and a bitter black frost had lasted for many weeks. The keen east wind had long since swept the streets clean, though in a gusty day the dust would rise like pounded ice, and make people's faces quite smart with the cold force with which it blew against them. Houses, sky, people, and everything looked as if a gigantic brush had washed them all over with a dark shade of Indian ink. — Elizabeth Gaskell

I'm interested in painting the most beautifully compelling pictures and images and metaphors and stories and explanations possible that will put Jesus in language for a world that desperately needs to hear it. — Rob Bell

I liked you better when you were this timid little kid. What happened?"
"I started living with you guys."
"Oh, right. — Rachel Caine

Our thoughts make everything possible in this impossible world. — Debasish Mridha

End of February? Let's see . . . February 24th? Nothing. Nothing at all. I mean, Steve Jobs' birthday, but besides that, you know, a whole lot of nothing. I think it's a Monday. — T. Lucas Earle

Faith is full force. — Lailah Gifty Akita

We are all teachers, or should be. Anyone who relays experience to another person is a teacher. Not to transmit your experience is to betray it. — Elie Wiesel

To sit for one's portrait is like being present at one's own creation. — Alexander Smith

My favorite people to have fun with are police officers 'cause they're so serious, you know. — Gabriel Iglesias

I dreamed you a field of running horses, Selah. For you, Bianca, a balloon the size of the sky, my body a kite you can throw into the air.Pull me by string and horse.Tell me everything won't end in death. That everything doesn't end with February. Dead wildflowers wrapped around a crying baby's throat.I've slowed my heartbeat to three beats a minute. I've redrawn the clouds into birds, a fox chasing them into the mountains.I'm going to move my hand today.I vomit ice cubes.There's a ghost next to me.Get up, Dad.(Light Boxes) — Shane Jones

After the sorts of winters we have had to endure recently, the spring does seem miraculous, because it has become gradually harder and harder to believe that it is actually going to happen. Every February since 1940 I have found myself thinking that this time winter is going to be permanent. But Persephone, like the toads, always rises from the dead at about the same moment. Suddenly, towards the end of March, the miracle happens and the decaying slum in which I live is transfigured. — George Orwell

I love the Christmas-tide, and yet,
I notice this, each year I live;
I always like the gifts I get,
But how I love the gifts I give! — Carolyn Wells

I was running super slow. Chris thought I was done. Then one day at the end of February, I woke up and my body felt good. I was just so happy. I was faster than my brother again. I got all my moves back. I told him, 'Brother, I'm back, and now you're done!' — Rob Gronkowski

My father-in-law is so sensitive. Sometimes I think he displays too much love for my children. — Columba Bush

I buy most of my plants from nurseries outside London these days, but there is a man who mysteriously appears each February to sell plants from a derelict site in Market Road. I think he's Greek, but people say he comes from Essex. He vanishes at the end of May only to reappear in December as suddenly as he went. — Diana Quick

I love being chubby because chicks that smoke pot love me. They think I have food at my house. — Reno Collier

Spring, if it lingers more than a week beyond its span, starts to hunger for summer to end the days of perpetual promise. Summer in its turn soon begins to sweat for something to quench its heat, and the mellowest of autumns will tire of gentility at last, and ache for a quick sharp frost to kill its fruitfulness. Even winter - the hardest season, the most implacable - dreams, as February creeps on, of the flame that will presently melt it away. Everything tires with time, and starts to seek some opposition, to save it from itself. — Clive Barker

February
Boris Pasternak
It's February. Get ink. Weep.
Write the heart out about it, sing
Another song of February
While raucous slush burns black with spring.
Six grivnas* for a buggy ride
Past booming bells, on screaming gears,
Out to a place where drizzles fall
Louder than any ink or tears
Where like a flock of charcoal pears,
A thousand blackbirds, ripped awry
From trees to puddles, knock dry grief
Into the deep end of the eye.
A thaw patch blackens underfoot.
The wind is gutted with a scream.
True verses are the most haphazard,
Rhyming the heart out on a theme.
*Grivna: a unit of currency. — Boris Pasternak