A Quote by Francois Villon

But where are the snows of yester year? — © Francois Villon
But where are the snows of yester year?

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Tell me now in what hidden way isLady Flora the lovely Roman?Where's Hipparchia, and where is Thais,Neither of them the fairer woman?Where is Echo, beheld of no man,Only heard on river and mere-She whose beauty was more than human?-But where are the snows of yester-year?
Those yesterdreams were just a cruel and foolish game we used to play, yester-me, yester-you, yesterday.
Pluto has strong atmospheric cycles: it snows on the surface; the snows sublimate and go back into the atmosphere each 248 year orbit.
Are people like Tom Cruise in touch with their public? I doubt it. Footballers are more like the rock stars of yester-year: they are box office.
But where are the snows of last year? That was the greatest concern of Villon, the Parisian poet.
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.
Sing hey! Sing hey! For Christmas Day; Twine mistletoe and holly. For a friendship glows In winter snows, And so let's all be jolly! At Christmas play and make good cheer, For Christmas comes but once a year
I would like to like to make one thing clear at the very outset and that is, when you speak of a train robbery, this involved no loss of train, merely what I like to call the contents of the train, which were pilfered. We haven't lost a train since 1946, I believe it was - the year of the great snows when we mislaid a small one.
But where are the snows of yesteryear?
Now I am quietly waiting for the catastrophe of my personality to seem beautiful again, and interesting, and modern. The country is grey and brown and white in trees, snows and skies of laughter always diminishing, less funny not just darker, not just grey. It may be the coldest day of the year, what does he think of that? I mean, what do I? And if I do, perhaps I am myself again.
Time does not bring relief; you all have lied Who told me time would ease me of my pain! I miss him in the weeping of the rain; I want him at the shrinking of the tide; The old snows melt from every mountain-side, And last year's leaves are smoke in every lane; But last year's bitter loving must remain Heaped on my heart, and my old thoughts abide! There are a hundred places where I fear To go,--so with his memory they brim! And entering with relief some quiet place Where never fell his foot or shone his face I say, 'There is no memory of him here!' And so stand stricken, so remembering him!
That's what happens when it snows in Texas lady. It. Freaking. Melts.
Every year is a new year, and when you look at the turnover year to year, teams that made the playoffs last year aren't a guarantee to make the playoffs this year.
The winters in Denver are brutal; it snows from the end of October to April.
The snows and the roses of yesterday are vanished; And what is love but a rose that fades?
The only way I'd worry about the weather is if it snows on our side of the field and not theirs.
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