Winter Poems Quotes & Sayings

There is dew
on these poems in the morning,
and at night a cool breeze may rise from them.
In the winter they are blankets, in the summer a place to swim.
I like talking to you like this. Have you moved
a step closer?
Soon we may be
kissing. — Kabir

There's nothing in the streets
Looks any different to me
And the slogans are replaced, by-the-bye
And the parting on the left
Are now parting on the right
And the beards have all grown longer overnight ... — Julien Temple

Knowledge is vain and fruitless which is not reduced to practice. — Matthew Henry

That field hath eyen, and the wood hath ears. — Geoffrey Chaucer

His novel or book of poems, decent, adequate, arises not from an exercise of style or will, as the poor unfortunate believes, but as the result of an exercise of concealment. There must be many books, many lovely pines, to shield from hungry eyes the book that really matters, the wretched cave of our misfortune, the magic flower of winter! — Roberto Bolano

Her back to me, she said, "I know what Paul thinks. Everyone thinks I didn't love Porter, that I just married him for the money, but Porter and I
" She shrugged.
As avowals of lasting love go, I've sat through more professional presentations.
But I said, "No outsider can understand a relationship between two people." Hell, sometimes even the people in the relationship couldn't understand it. — Josh Lanyon

The summer in you
calms the winter in me. — Saiber

Personally, I do not know whether humankind is alone in this vast universe. But I do know that we should cherish our existence on this precious speck of matter ... the greatest gift that could be bestowed upon us. For all practical purposes, there is only one planet Earth. — Ban Ki-moon

A single poem
is worth a hundred
cozy winter nights
kind words
and healed wounds. — Sanober Khan

Daddy-by Nancy B. Brewer
When I used to say, speak up you are as good as they, You would just smile and say, let them have their way. When in my foolish youth, I so often disobeyed,
He would just smile and say, let her have her way. When summer passed and winter overcame. He was not afraid, never once did he say. When in the moonlight his final hour came, He just smiled and said Lord I'll go your way. — Nancy B. Brewer

Precise, graceful, and generous, the poems in SuperLoop, seem to be born out of a deep, careful attention and a profound compassion. Sometimes the quiet observer, sometimes the kid in the center of the messed-up carnival, these poems are the fireflies you've missed all winter, the longed-for return of the bees. Unaffected and inherently hopeful, Callihan's work is as merciful as it is moving. — Ada Limon

Flowers bloomed without glimpsing your smile in spring, leaves have fallen in autumn chiming in with the gloom, the chill of winter has gone and now is the first light of summer without you near but in our hearts will forever hold you dear ... Elizabeth's Shorter Poems — Elizabeth E. Castillo

Anne Pitkin's poems have such lyrical sweep, such a sensitive eye for the natural world as it touches the human, that reading Winter Arguments is like seeing a landscape or, better, a richly realized painting of a landscape dotted with figures. But that would leave out their music, which would be a loss. This is a wise and graceful book by a well-traveled woman who knows how to confront deep feeling and frame it to make it all the more intense. — Rosellen Brown

We plowed through Chaucer, and I learned to assist her using the Middle English dictionary. One year we spent the winter painstakingly noting each instance of symbolism within Pilgrim's Progress on separate recipe cards, and I was delighted to see our pile grow to be thicker than the book itself. She set her hair in curlers while listening to records of Carl Sandburg's poems over and over, and instructed me on how to hear the words differently each time. After discovering Susan Sontag, she explained to me that even meaning itself is a constructed concept, and I learned how to nod and pretend to understand. My — Hope Jahren

This winter, there will be no voices, no glimpses, no arms.
only the fabric of poetry, to keep me warm. — Sanober Khan

Civilization is the ability to share what makes us similar in the respect of what makes us different. — Dario De Judicibus

I waited for the seasons of love to pass from this cold winter to the summer heat I dreamed of. — Shannon L. Alder

She points to the door. "Leave!"
"No." So she picks up a hairbrush and throws it at him. It beans him on the head and ricochets to the wall, where it wedges behind the TV.
"Ow!" He grabs his head, grimacing. "That hurt!"
"Good, it was supposed to. — Neal Shusterman

I was a gift to my mother. She was a remarkable person. God or nature, or whatever those forces are, smiled on her, then passed me the best of her. — Sidney Poitier

Life is all about the friendship and the love and the music. It sounds silly, but it is. I want to have that experience as much as I can as an adult, not as a kid doing something that people are telling her she has to do. If anyone gets in my way, I'm going to get them out of my way. — Fiona Apple

Snow-melt in the stream: Mama Nature turning winter's storms into nourishment for the soil, fecundity, and beauty. This is what I must now learn to do with the stormy weather I've been passing through: turn it into beauty, turn it into art, so new life can germinate and bloom.
One example of a creative artist who does this is my friend Jane Yolen, who wrote her exquisite book of poems The Radiation Sonnets while her husband was undergoing treatment for the cancer that would eventually claim his life. This is what all artists must do: take whatever life gives us and "alchemize" it into our art (either directly and autobiographically, as in Jane's book, or indirectly; whatever approach works best), turning darkness into light, spinning straw into gold, transforming pain and hardship into what J.R.R. Tolkien called 'a miraculous grace. — Terri Windling

Everything in our age conspires to turn the writer, and every other kind of artist as well, into a minor official, working on themes handed to [him] from above and never telling what seems to him the whole of the truth. But in struggling against this fate he gets no help from his own side: that is, there is no large body of opinion which will assure him that he is in the right. — George Orwell

To some degree. I know I couldn't do it anymore. — Chuck Daly

Unfortunately, I can only act; I do not have the looks, but I am very happy with what God has given me. — Dhanush

Following dark winter's strife, a warm air rises, teemed with life. Birth, rebirth, as the waiting die. Old love, new love sprouts wings to fly. — Phar West Nagle

Nothing is original. Steal from anywhere that resonates with inspiration or fuels your imagination. Devour old films, new films, music, books, paintings, photographs, poems, dreams, random conversations, architecture, bridges, street signs, trees, clouds, bodies of water, light and shadows. Select only things to steal from that speak directly to your soul. If you do this, your work (and theft) will be authentic. Authenticity is invaluable; originality is non-existent. And don't bother concealing your thievery - celebrate it if you feel like it. In any case, always remember what Jean-Luc Godard said: "It's not where you take things from - it's where you take them to."
[MovieMaker Magazine #53 - Winter, January 22, 2004 ] — Jim Jarmusch

The way I understand the rules on trading on inside information, it's very vague. — Steven A. Cohen

At the Sound of the Gunshot,
Leave A Message

That's what my friend spoke
into his grim machine the winter he first went mad
as we both did in our thirties with still
no hope of revenue, gravely inking
our poems on pages held fast by gyres
the color of lead.

Godless, our minds
did monster us, left us bobbing as in a swamp
until we sank. His eyes were burn holes
in a swollen face. His breath was a venom
he drank deep of. He called his own tongue
a scar, this poet

who can crowbar open
the most sealed heart, make ash flower,
and the cocked shotgun's double-zero mouths
(whose pellets had exploded star holes into plaster and porcelain
and not a few locked doors) never touched
my friend's throat. Praise

Him, whose earth is green.

(for Franz Wright) — Mary Karr

some winters
will never melt

some summers
will never freeze

and some things will only
... live in poems. — Sanober Khan

Even within one person, yesterday and today, there are differences. We must look at a deeper level. — Dalai Lama

He gazed deeply into my eyes. Placing his hand to my cheek, he caressed my skin with his fingertips. "Ariel, you have a strength that cannot be hindered by anything. A strength that I admire greatly." - Luca — Victoria H. Smith

I require silence to write the way an apple tree requires winter to make fruit. Being with people is intimate and joyous, but at some point, I'll wander off by myself. The paradox is that what began in childhood as an act of necessary solitude has led me straight to a life with others, in which I fly to China or Lithuania or northern Minnesota to read my poems and talk with other people who love language made into a lathe on which a life can be tuned and be turned. — Jane Hirshfield