Let us love winter, for it is the spring of genius.
While it is February one can taste the full joys of anticipation. Spring stands at the gate with her finger on the latch.
Every mile is two in winter
February... Bending from Heaven, in azure mirth, It kissed the forehead of the Earth, And smiled upon the silent sea, And bade the frozen streams be free, And waked to music all their fountains, And breathed upon the frozen mountains.
If January is the month of change, February is the month of lasting change. January is for dreamers... February is for doers -
in February there is everything to hope for and nothing to regret.
Why, what's the matter, That you have such a February face, So full of frost, of storm and cloudiness?
There is always in February some one day, at least, when one smells the yet distant, but surely coming, summer.
February is the uncertain month, neither black nor white but all shades between by turns. Nothing is sure.
Late February days; and now, at last, Might you have thought that Winter's woe was past; So fair the sky was and so soft the air.
The most serious charge which can be brought against New England is not Puritanism but February.
Violets are God's apology for February.
In the coldest February, as in every other month in every other year, the best thing to hold on to in this world is each other.
January cold and desolate; February dripping wet; March wind ranges; April changes; Birds sing in tune To flowers of May, And sunny June Brings longest day; In scorched July The storm-clouds fly, Lightning-torn; August bears corn, September fruit; In rough October Earth must disrobe her; Stars fall and shoot In keen November; And night is long And cold is strong In bleak December.
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.
February, when the days of winter seem endless and no amount of wistful recollecting can bring back any air of summer.
February dawn -- frost on the path Where I paced all winter.
Go to the winter woods: listen there, look, watch, and "the dead months" will give you a subtler secret than any you have yet found in the forest.
The February sunshine steeps your boughs and tints the buds and swells the leaves within.
January gray is here, like a sexton by her grave; February bears the bier, march with grief doth howl and rave, and April weeps -- but, O ye hours! Follow with May's fairest flowers.
Without Valentine's Day, February would be... well, January.
The only bubble in the flat champagne of February is Valentine’s Day. It was no accident that our ancestors pinned Valentine’s Day on February’s shirt: he or she lucky enough to have a lover in frigid, antsy February has cause for celebration, indeed.
Still lie the sheltering snows, undimmed and white; And reigns the winter's pregnant silence still; No sign of spring, save that the catkins fill, And willow stems grow daily red and bright. These are days when ancients held a rite Of expiation for the old year's ill, And prayer to purify the new year's will.
Surely as cometh the Winter, I know There are Spring violets under the snow.
The most serious charge which can be brought against New England is not Puritanism, but February.... Spring is too far away to comfort even by anticipation, and winter long ago lost the charm of novelty. This is the very three a.m. of the calendar.
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