April is the cruellest month, breedingLilacs out of the dead land, mixingMemory out of desire, stirringDull roots with spring rain.Winter kept us warm, coveringEarth in a forgetful snow, feedingA little life with dried tubers.
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Nature has no mercy at all. Nature says, I'm going to snow. If you have on a bikini and no snowshoes, that's tough. I am going to snow anyway.
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Oh the thumb-sucker's thumb May look wrinkled and wet And withered, and white as the snow, But the taste of a thumb Is the sweetest taste yet (As only we thumb-sucker's know).
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In the bleak midwinter Frosty wind made moan, Earth stood hard as iron, Water like a stone; Snow had fallen, snow on snow, Snow on snow, In the bleak midwinter, Long ago.
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To be seventy years old is like climbing the Alps. You reach a snow-crowned summit, and see behind you the deep valley stretching miles and miles away, and before you other summits higher and whiter, which you may have strength to climb, or may not. Then you sit down and meditate and wonder which it will be.
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The setting sun is reflected from the windows of the alms-house as brightly as from the rich man's abode; the snow melts before its door as early in the spring. --
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We held hands on the last night on earth. Our mouths filled with dust, we kissed in the fields and under trees, screaming like dogs, bleeding dark into the leaves. It was empty on the edge of town but we knew everyone floated along the bottom of the river. So we walked through the waste where the road curved into the sea and the shattered seasons lay, and the bitter smell of burning was on you like a disease.In our cancer of passion you said, 'Death is a midnight runner.' The sky had come crashing down like the news of an intimate suicide. We picked up the shards and formed them into shapes of stars that wore like an antique wedding dress. The echoes of the past broke the hearts of the unborn as the ferris wheel silently slowed to a stop. The few insects skidded away in hopes of a better pastime. I kissed you at the apexof the maelstrom and asked if you would accompany me ina quick fall, but you made me realize that my ticket wasn't good for two. I rode alone. You said,'The cinders are falling like snow.' There is poetry in despair, and we sang with unrivaled beauty, bitter elegies of savagery and eloquence.Of blue and grey. Strange, we ran down desperate streets and carvedour names in the flesh of the city. The sun has stagnated somewhere beyond the rim of the horizon and the darkness is a mystery of curves and line.Still, we lay under the emptiness and drifted slowly outward,and somewhere in the wilderness we foundsalvation scratched into the earth like a message. the untitled poem--afi
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The Eskimos had 52 names for snow because it was important to them; there ought to be as many for love.
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The shades of night were falling fast,As though an Alpine village passedA youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice,A banner with the strange device,ExcelsiorHis brow was sad his eye beneath,Flashed like a falchion from its sheath,And like a silver clarion rungThe accents of that unknown tongue,Excelsior
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I THINK that I shall never see A poem lovely as a tree. A tree whose hungry mouth is prest Against the sweet earth's flowing breast; A tree that looks at God all day, And lifts her leafy arms to pray; A tree that may in summer wear A nest of robins in her hair; Upon whose bosom snow has lain; Who intimately lives with rain. Poems are made by fools like me, But only God can make a tree.
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These be three silent things: The Falling snow... the hour before the dawn... the mouth of one just dead.
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Ring out the old, ring in the new, Ring happy bells, across the snow:...
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The chief mate of the Pequod was Starbuck, a native of Nantucket, and a Quaker by descent. He was a long, earnest man, and though born on an icy coast, seemed well adapted to endure hot latitudes, his flesh being hard as twice-baked biscuit. Transported to the Indies, his live blood would not spoil like bottled ale. He must have been born in some time of general drought and famine, or upon one of those fast days for which his state is famous. Only some thirty arid summers had he seen; those summers had dried up all his physical superfluousness. But this, his thinness, so to speak, seemed no more the token of wasting anxieties and cares, than it seemed the indication of any bodily blight. It was merely the condensation of the man. He was by no means ill-looking; quite the contrary. His pure tight skin was an excellent fit; and closely wrapped up in it, and embalmed with inner health and strength, like a revivified Egyptian, this Starbuck seemed prepared to endure for long ages to come, and to endure always, as now; for be it Polar snow or torrid sun, like a patent chronometer, his interior vitality was warranted to do well in all climates. Looking into his eyes, you seemed to see there the yet lingering images of those thousand-fold perils he had calmly confronted through life. A staid, steadfast man, whose life for the most part was a telling pantomime of action, and not a tame chapter of sounds. Yet, for all his hardy sobriety and fortitude, there were certain qualities in him which at times affected, and in some cases seemed well nigh to overbalance all the rest. Uncommonly conscientious for a seaman, and endued with a deep natural reverence, the wild watery loneliness of his life did therefore strongly incline him to superstition; but to that sort of superstition, which in some organizations seems rather to spring, somehow, from intelligence than from ignorance. Outward portents and inward presentiments were his.
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On Linden, when the sun was low, All bloodless lay the untrodden snow, And dark as winter was the flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
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Their errors have been weighed and found to have been dust in the balance; if their sins were as scarlet, they are now white as snow: they have been washed in the blood of the mediator and the redeemer, Time.
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One Christmas was so much like another,...that I can never remember whether it snowed for six days and six nights when I was twleve or whether it snowed for twelve days and twelve nights when I was six.
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How did it happen that their lips came together? How does it happen that birds sing, that snow melts, that the rose unfolds, that the dawn whitens behind the stark shapes of trees on the quivering summit of the hill? A kiss, and all was said.
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This is the Hour of Lead -- Remembered, if outlived, As Freezing persons, recollect the Snow -- First --Chill --then Stupor --then the letting go --.
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The snow doesn't give a soft white damn whom it touches.
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The snow was falling heavily outside. I sat before a blank page for close to ten hours. I refused to get up; instead attempted with great pains to coerce stubborn thoughts from my noodle. Useless it seemed until the 11th hour and then all I'd seen and felt and heard, arrived, and was transcribed effortlessly like the tune of chirping birds.
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Sunshine is delicious, rain is refreshing, wind braces us up, snow is exhilarating; there is really no such thing as bad weather, only different kinds of good weather.
Nature
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Don't stand beside my grave and weep, For I'm not there, I do not sleep, I am a thousand winds that blow, I am the diamond's glint on snow, I am the sunlight on ripened grain, I am the gentle autumn's rain.
When you awaken in morning's hush, I am the swift uplifting rush, of quiet birds in circle flight, I am soft stars that shine at night, Don't stand beside my grave and cry, I am not there. I did not die.
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Announced by all the trumpets of the sky, Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields, Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven, And veils the farmhouse at the garden's end. The sled and traveller stopped, the courier's feet Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed In a tumultuous privacy of storm.
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And thus Snow White became the prince's bride. The wicked queen was invited to the wedding feast...
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How strange a thing is death, bringing to his knees, bringing to his antlers/The buck in the snow.
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Advice is like snow -- the softer it falls, the longer it dwells upon, and the deeper in sinks into the mind.
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Seasons Of Change All it did was rain, but it drowned out my Heart and all it's sorrow, so I'm thankful So deeply indebt and glad, that I'll never See the light of tomorrow. All it did was snow, the bitter cold, and Stiffness, effected me in ways you'll surely Never know. Cause you're better off than I am The wind was unsatiable, and unconquerable so malacious, so unforgiving, so completely Miserable, it reminded me of you. It was so hot and tepid, so incredibly unbearing I thought that I would give up my Long and relently journey for a place without You. But I was wrong, again, as always. Because in the heat of that night, you came To me, with sweat pouring and cries crying. The weather and seasons remind me of you, and Your prolific attempt to bring my spirits down. Kade William Davies Copyright ©2004 Kade William Davies
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In any man who dies there dies with him, his first snow and kiss and fight... Not people die but worlds die in them.
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Advice is like snow; the softer it falls, the longer it dwells upon, and the deeper it sinks into, the mind.
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In any man who dies there dies with him, his first snow and kiss and fight ... Not people die but worlds die in them.
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