Winter lies too long in country towns; hangs on until it is stale and shabby, old and sullen.
January, month of empty pockets! Let us endure this evil month, anxious as a theatrical producer's forehead.
Often in winter the end of the day is like the final metaphor in a poem celebrating death: there is no way out.
O, wind, if winter comes, can spring be far behind?
Many of the phenomena of Winter are suggestive of an inexpressible tenderness and fragile delicacy. We are accustomed to hear this king described as a rude and boisterous tyrant; but with the gentleness of a lover he adorns the tresses of Summer.