O, who can hold a fire in his hand By thinking on the frosty Caucasus? Or cloy the hungry edge of appetite By bare imagination of a feast? Or wallow naked in December snow By thinking on fantastic summer's heat? O, no! the apprehension of the good Gives but the greater feeling to the worse.
Some few people are born without any sense of time.As consequence, their sense of place becomes heightened to an excruciating degree. They lie in tall grass and are questioned by poets and painters from all over the world. These time-deaf are beseeched to describe the precise placement of trees in the spring, the shape of snow on the Alps, the angle of sun on a church, the position of rivers, the location of moss, the pattern of birds in a flock. Yet the time-deaf are unable to speak what they know. For speech needs a sequence of words, spoken in time.
At Christmas I no more desire a rose Than wish a snow in May's new-fangled mirth; But like of each thing that in season grows.
Thou would'st as soon go kindle fire with snow, / As seek to quench the fire of love with words.
Hearts grow warmer the farther you go / Up to the North with its hills and snow.
As soon go kindle fire with snow, as seek to quench the fire of love with words.--_Shakespeare._
The force that makes the winter grow Its feathered hexagons of snow, and drives the bee to match at home Their calculated honeycomb, Is abacus and rose combined. An icy sweetness fills my mind, A sense that under thing and wing Lies, taut yet living, coiled, the spring.
When you think of the long and gloomy history of man, you will find more hideous crimes have been committed in the name of obedience than have ever been committed in the name of rebellion.
The moral of Snow White is never eat apples.
Cats are smarter than dogs. You can not get eight cats to pull a sled through snow.
We hear the rain fall, but not the snow. Bitter grief is loud, calm grief is silent.
But pleasures are like poppies spread, You seize the flower, its bloom is shed; Or, like the snow-fall in the river, A moment white, then melts forever.
The current opinion that science and poetry are opposed is a delusion. … Think you that a drop of water, which to the vulgar eye is but a drop of water, loses any thing in the eye of the physicist who knows that its elements are held together by a force which, if suddenly liberated, would produce a flash of lightning? Think you that what is carelessly looked upon by the uninitiated as a mere snow-flake does not suggest higher associations to one who has seen through a microscope the wondrously varied and elegant forms of snow-crystals? Think you that the rounded rock marked with parallel scratches calls up as much poetry in an ignorant mind as in the mind of a geologist, who knows that over this rock a glacier slid a million years ago? … The truth is, that those who have never entered upon scientific pursuits know not a tithe of the poetry by which they are surrounded.
He who ascends to mountain-tops shall find The loftiest peaks most wrapt in clouds and snow; He who surpasses or subdues mankind Must look down on the hate of those below.
I am going a long way With these thou seest--if indeed I go (For all my mind is clouded with a doubt)-- To the island-valley of Avilion, Where falls not hail or rain or any snow, Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies Deep-meadow'd, happy, fair with orchard lawns And bowery hollows crown'd with summer sea, Where I will heal me of my grievous wound.
Rain and snow do drop from the air, but not without a long previous history. They are the mature effects of former causes. Equally so are Rest, and Peace, and Joy. They, too, have each a previous history. Storms and winds and calms are not accidents, but are brought about by antecedent circumstances. Rest and Peace are but calms in man's inward nature, and arise through causes as definite and as inevitable. Pax Vobiscum, p. 18.
Ring out the old, ring in the new, Ring, happy bells, across the snow!
Wherever snow falls, there is usually civil freedom.
Corruption is like a ball of snow, when once set a rolling it must increase.
In the early days of the world, the world was too full of wonders to require any other miracles. The whole world was a miracle and a revelation, there was no need for any special disclosure. At that time the heavens, the waters, the sun and moon, the stars of heaven, the showers and dew, the winds of God, fire and heat, winter and summer, ice and snow, nights and days, lightnings and clouds, the earth, the mountains and hills, the green things upon the earth, the wells, and seas and floods--all blessed the Lord, praised Him and magnified Him for ever. Can we imagine a more powerful revelation? Is it for us to say that for the children of men to join in praising and magnifying Him who revealed Himself in His own way in all the magnificence, the wisdom and order of nature, is mere paganism, polytheism, pantheism, and abominable idolatry? I have heard many blasphemies, I have heard none greater than this.
Be thou as chaste as ice, as pure as snow, thou shalt not escape calumny. Get thee to a nunnery, go.
I say that the azure we see in the atmosphere is not its true colour, but is caused by warm moisture evaporated in minute and insensible atoms which the solar rays strike, rendering them luminous against the darkness of the infinite night of the fiery region which lies beyond and includes them. And this may be seen, as I saw it, by him who ascends Mounboso (Monte Rosa), a peak of the Alps which separates France from Italy. The base of this mountain gives birth to the four large rivers which in four different directions water the whole of Europe; and no mountain has its base at so great a height as this. It rises to such a height that it almost lifts itself up above the clouds; snow seldom falls on it, but only hail in summer, when the clouds are at their greatest height, and this hail is preserved there so that were it not for the absorption of the rising and falling clouds, which does not occur twice in an age, a great quantity of ice would be piled up there by the hail, which in the middle of July I found to be very considerable; and I saw above me the dark air, and the sun which struck the mountain shone far lighter than in the plains below, because a lesser quantity of atmosphere lay between the summit of the mountain and the sun.
~Lips.~--Lips like rosebuds peeping out of snow.--_Bailey._
Ou sont les neiges d'antan?=--Where is the snow of last year? _F. Villons._ [Greek: ou toi synechthein alla symphilein ephyn]--I am here not for mutual hatred, but for mutual affection.
I wonder if the snow loves the trees and fields, that it kisses them so gently? And then it covers them up snug, you know, with a white quilt; and perhaps it says "Go to sleep, darlings, till the summer comes again.
In such a world as this a man who is rich in himself is like a bright, warm, happy room at Christmastide, while without are the frost and snow of a December night.
By happy chance we saw A twofold image: on a grassy bank A snow-white ram, and in the crystal flood Another and the same!
Round and round, like a dance of snow In a dazzling drift, as its guardians, go Floating the women faded for ages, Sculptured in stone on the poet's pages.
Beneath the Winter's snow lie germs of summer flowers.--_Whittier._
The buildings appear to be glued together, mostly small houses and apartment blocks that looked nervous. There is murky snow spread out like carpet. There is concrete, empty hat-stand trees, and gray air.
I read once that the ancient Egyptians had fifty words for sand & the Eskimos had a hundred words for snow. I wish I had a thousand words for love, but all that comes to mind is the way you move against me while you sleep & there are no words for that.
Near the snow, near the sun, in the highest fields, See how these names are feted in the waving grass And by the streamers of the white cloud And whispers of the wind in the listening sky. The names of those who in their lives fought for life, Who wore at their hearts the fire's centre. Born of the sun, they travelled a short while toward the sun And left the vivid air signed with their honour.
Her cap, far whiter than the driven snow, Emblems right meet of decency does yield.
Like streams that keep a summer mind Snow-hid in Jenooary.
Whether you boil snow or pound it, you can have but water of it.
I sit by the window and watch the rain and the leaves and the snow collide. They take turns dancing in the wind, performing choreographed routines for unsuspecting masses. The soldiers stomp stomp stomp through the rain, crushing leaves and fallen snow under their feet. Their hands are wrapped in gloves wrapped around guns that could put a bullet through a million possibilities. They don’t bother to be bothered by the beauty that falls from the sky. They don’t understand the freedom in feeling the universe on their skin. They don’t care.
Few, few shall part where many meet! The snow shall be their winding-sheet, And every turf beneath their feet Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.
Ring out the old, ring in the new, / Ring, happy bells, across the snow!
Didst thou but know the inly touch of love, / Thou wouldst as soon go kindle fire with snow, / As seek to quench the fire of love with words.
As chaste as unsunn'd snow.
He noticed her eyes especially were beautiful, well-shaped and of an odd color. “I’ve never seen anybody with eyes the color of yours,” he said. “They are from my mother, I guess. Almost everyone in Jericho has dark eyes, but my mother was a slave. She used to tell me about her home where she was born. There was ice and snow there. Very cold. Her hair was light and her eyes were blue. She died some time ago.” Othniel could not help but admire the woman’s appearance. The lamp was burning, and the yellow light was kind to her, showing the full, soft lines of her body. He noticed also that her face was very expressive. Her feelings showed immediately on her face. She did not smile much, but when she did her whole expression lit up. He wanted to ask her about herself,
Hide, oh, hide those hills of snow Which thy frozen bosom bears, On whose tops the pinks that grow Are of those that April wears! But first set my poor heart free, Bound in those icy chains by thee.
The only difference between painting and sculpture is that the sculptor accomplishes his work with the greater bodily fatigue, and the painter with the greater mental fatigue. This is proved by the fact that the sculptor in practising his art is obliged to exert his arms and to strike and shatter the marble or other stone, which remains over and above what is needed for the figure which it contains, by manual exercise, accompanied often by profuse sweating, mingled with dust and transforming itself into dirt; and his face is plastered and powdered with the dust of the marble, so that he has the appearance of a baker, and he is covered with minute chips, and it appears as if snow had fallen on him, and his dwelling is dirty and full of chips and the dust of stone.
I have not yet lost a feeling of wonder, and of delight, that this delicate motion should reside in all the things around us, revealing itself only to him who looks for it. I remember, in the winter of our first experiments, just seven years ago, looking on snow with new eyes. There the snow lay around my doorstep — great heaps of protons quietly precessing in the earth's magnetic field. To see the world for a moment as something rich and strange is the private reward of many a discovery.
I see my way as birds their trackless way. I shall arrive,--what time, what circuit first, I ask not; but unless God send his hail Or blinding fire-balls, sleet or stifling snow, In some time, his good time, I shall arrive: He guides me and the bird. In his good time.
Don’t complain about the snow on your neighbor’s roof when your own doorstep is unclean.
A book about a lady knight with purple eyes and a passion for justice—one of her few treasured possessions—lay near the window. So far she’d paid Amanda at the Green Inn twice to read it to her. It was that precious. With her mind made up to leave Vaneis, she packed the three dresses she owned, the scarf, the book, some herbs for soap mix, and thirty shillings for the road in her satchel. The next morning, she made sure to pay the innkeeper five shillings for her month's rent. She filled a small rucksack full of food for her journey and left the inn with a smile on her face. Once outside, Ciardis squinted, looking up and down the caravan line. There were six wagons attached to huraks – large, ponderous beasts that looked like oxen with claws. The huraks were all clearly anxious to go as they snorted and pawed the fresh snow with the three dagger-shaped claws on each foot. You and me both, friend. She clutched her two cloth bags and stared around for Lady Serena, trying not to seem too obvious. "All riders up!" rang the call down the line. Ciardis gave up her nonchalant look in favor of panic and began to search frantically. She didn't see Lady Serena anywhere. What if it had all been a cruel joke?
Be thou as chaste as ice, as pure as snow, thou shalt not escape calumny.
Cinderella? Snow White? What's that? An illness?
~Teeth.~--Teeth like falling snow for white.--~Cowley.~
And the night smells like snow. Walking home for a moment you almost believe you could start again. And an intense love rushes to your heart, and hope. It’s unendurable, unendurable
Love with old men is as the sun upon the snow, it dazzles more than it warms them.--_J. Petit Senn._
A mockery king of snow.
The cold winds swept the mountain-height, And pathless was the dreary wild, And 'mid the cheerless hours of night A mother wandered with her child: As through the drifting snows she press'd, The babe was sleeping on her breast.
Few, few shall part where many meet; The snow shall be their winding-sheet, / And every turf beneath their feet / Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.
There is another fallacy which appears to me to pervade the so-called "ethics of evolution." It is the notion that because, on the whole, animals and plants have advanced in perfection of organization by means of the struggle for existence and the consequent "survival of the fittest"; therefore men in society, men as ethical beings, must look to the same process to help them towards perfection. I suspect that this fallacy has arisen out of the unfortunate ambiguity of the phrase "survival of the fittest." "Fittest" has a connotation of "best"; and about "best" there hangs a moral flavour. In cosmic nature, however, what is "fittest" depends upon the conditions. Long since, I ventured to point out that if our hemisphere were to cool again, the survival of the fittest might bring about, in the vegetable kingdom, a population of more and more stunted and humbler and humbler organisms, until the "fittest" that survived might be nothing but lichens, diatoms, and such microscopic organisms as those which give red snow its colour; while, if it became hotter, the pleasant valleys of the Thames and Isis might be uninhabitable by any animated beings save those that flourish in a tropical jungle. They, as the fittest, the best adapted to the changed conditions, would survive.
Rather privation of limbs than weariness of doing good. The power of using my limbs shall fail me before the power of being useful. Rather death than weariness. I cannot be satiated with serving. I do not weary of giving help. No amount of work is sufficient to weary me. This is a carnival motto: "Sine lassitudine." Hands in which ducats and precious stones abound like snow never grow weary of serving, but such a service is for its utility only and not for our profit. Nature has formed me thus.
At 5:00 a.m. the clubs get going properly; the Forbes stumble down from their loggias, grinning and swaying tipsily. They are all dressed the same, in expensive striped silk shirts tucked into designer jeans, all tanned and plump and glistening with money and self-satisfaction. They join the cattle on the dance floor. Everyone is wrecked by now and bounces around sweating, so fast it’s almost in slow motion. They exchange these sweet, simple glances of mutual recognition, as if the masks have come off and they’re all in on one big joke. And then you realize how equal the Forbes and the girls really are. They all clambered out of one Soviet world. The oil geyser has shot them to different financial universes, but they still understand each other perfectly. And their sweet, simple glances seem to say how amusing this whole masquerade is, that yesterday we were all living in communal flats and singing Soviet anthems and thinking Levis and powdered milk were the height of luxury, and now we’re surrounded by luxury cars and jets and sticky Prosecco. And though many westerners tell me they think Russians are obsessed with money, I think they’re wrong: the cash has come so fast, like glitter shaken in a snow globe, that it feels totally unreal, not something to hoard and save but to twirl and dance in like feathers in a pillow fight and cut like papier-mâché into different, quickly changing masks. At 5:00 a.m. the music goes faster and faster, and in the throbbing, snowing night the cattle become Forbeses and the Forbeses cattle, moving so fast now they can see the traces of themselves caught in the strobe across the dance floor. The guys and girls look at themselves and think: “Did that really happen to me? Is that me there? With all the Maybachs and rapes and gangsters and mass graves and penthouses and sparkly dresses?
A man whose blood Is very snow-broth; one who never feels The wanton stings and motions of the sense.
Chaste as the icicle That 's curdied by the frost from purest snow And hangs on Dian's temple.
Who ascends to mountain-tops, shall find / The loftiest peaks most wrapt in clouds and snow.
We build statues of snow, and weep to see them melt.
The clear, sweet singer with the crown of snow Not whiter than the thoughts that housed below.
His beard was as white as snow, All flaxen was his poll.
Chaste as the icicle / That's curded by the frost from purest snow, / And hangs on Dian's temple.
Mont Blanc is the monarch of mountains; They crowned him long ago On a throne of rocks, in a robe of clouds, With a diadem of snow.
Why seek at once to dive into / The depth of all that meets your view? / Wait for the melting of the snow, / And then you'll see what lies below.
shooting pictures of the seven dwarfs and their antics. Then she
mails the exposed film to a cut rate photo service. It takes weeks
for the developed film to arrive in the mail, but that is all right
with Snow White. She clears the table, washes the dishes and sweeps
the floor, all the while singing "Someday my prints will come."
After Snow White used a couple rolls of film taking pictures of the seven dwarfs, she mailed the roll to be developed. Later she was heard to sing, "Some day my prints will come."
"His eyes were cold. As cold as the bitter winter snow that was falling outside. Yes, cold and therefore difficult to chew..."
Coach: What's up, Norm? Norm: Corners of my mouth, Coach. -- Cheers, Fortune and Men's Weights Coach: What's shaking, Norm? Norm: All four cheeks and a couple of chins, Coach. -- Cheers, Snow Job Coach: Beer, Normie? Norm: Uh, Coach, I dunno, I had one this week. Eh, why not, I'm still young. -- Cheers, Snow Job
<Overfiend> Don't come crying to me about your "30 minute compiles"!! I have to build X uphill both ways! In the snow! With bare feet! And we didn't have compilers! We had to translate the C code to mnemonics OURSELVES! <Overfiend> And I was 18 before we even had assemblers!
Ladies and Gentlemen, Hobos and Tramps, Cross-eyed mosquitos and bowlegged ants, I come before you to stand behind you To tell you of something I know nothing about. Next Thursday (which is good Friday), There will be a convention held in the Women's Club which is strictly for Men. Admission is free, pay at the door, Pull up a chair, and sit on the floor. It was a summer's day in winter, And the snow was raining fast, As a barefoot boy with shoes on, Stood sitting in the grass. Oh, that bright day in the dead of night, Two dead men got up to fight. Three blind men to see fair play, Forty mutes to yell "Hooray"! Back to back, they faced each other, Drew their swords and shot each other. A deaf policeman heard the noise, Came and arrested those two dead boys.
QOTD: "I tried buying a goat instead of a lawn tractor; had to return it though. Couldn't figure out a way to connect the snow blower."
No one is fit to be trusted with power. ... No one. ... Any man who has lived at all knows the follies and wickedness he's capable of. ... And if he does know it, he knows also that neither he nor any man ought to be allowed to decide a single human fate. -- C. P. Snow, The Light and the Dark
FORTUNE'S FUN FACTS TO KNOW AND TELL: #37 Can you name the seven seas? Antartic, Artic, North Atlantic, South Atlantic, Indian, North Pacific, South Pacific. Can you name the seven dwarfs from Snow White? Doc, Dopey, Sneezy, Happy, Grumpy, Sleepy and Bashful.
Between 1950 and 1952, a bored weatherman, stationed north of Hudson Bay, left a monument that neither government nor time can eradicate. Using a bulldozer abandoned by the Air Force, he spent two years and great effort pushing boulders into a single word. It can be seen from 10,000 feet, silhouetted against the snow. Government officials exchanged memos full of circumlocutions (no Latin equivalent exists) but failed to word an appropriation bill for the destruction of this cairn, that wouldn't alert the press and embarrass both Parliament and Party. It stands today, a monument to human spirit. If life exists on other planets, this may be the first message received from us. -- The Realist, November, 1964.
Inglish Spocken Hier: some mangled translations Various signs in Poland: Right turn toward immediate outside. Go soothingly in the snow, as there lurk the ski demons. Five o'clock tea at all hours. In a men's washroom in Sidney: Shake excess water from hands, push button to start, rub hands rapidly under air outlet and wipe hands on front of shirt. -- Colin Bowles, San Francisco Chronicle
Some 1500 miles west of the Big Apple we find the Minneapple, a haven of tranquility in troubled times. It's a good town, a civilized town. A town where they still know how to get your shirts back by Thursday. Let the Big Apple have the feats of "Broadway Joe" Namath. We have known the stolid but steady Killebrew. Listening to Cole Porter over a dry martini may well suit those unlucky enough never to have heard the Whoopee John Polka Band and never to have shared a pitcher of 3.2 Grain Belt Beer. The loss is theirs. And the Big Apple has yet to bake the bagel that can match peanut butter on lefse. Here is a town where the major urban problem is dutch elm disease and the number one crime is overtime parking. We boast more theater per capita than the Big Apple. We go to see, not to be seen. We go even when we must shovel ten inches of snow from the driveway to get there. Indeed the winters are fierce. But then comes the marvel of the Minneapple summer. People flock to the city's lakes to frolic and rejoice at the sight of so much happy humanity free from the bonds of the traditional down-filled parka. Here's to the Minneapple. And to its people. Our flair for style is balanced by a healthy respect for wind chill factors. And we always, always eat our vegetables. This is the Minneapple.