All sounds are sharper in winter; the air transmits better.

It is the life of the crystal, the architect of the flake, the fire of the frost, the soul of the sunbeam. This crisp winter air is full of it.

The tendinous part of the mind, so to speak, is more developed in winter; the fleshy, in summer. I should say winter had given the bone and sinew to literature, summer the tissues and the blood.

A sap run is the sweet goodbye of winter. It is the fruit of the equal marriage of the sun and frost.

He who marvels at the beauty of the world in summer will find equal cause for wonder and admiration in winter.

The country is more of a wilderness, more of a wild solitude, in the winter than in the summer. The wild comes out. The urban, the cultivated, is hidden or negatived.