A Quote by Kiersten White

Streams of melting snow. — © Kiersten White
Streams of melting snow.
Eyes like streams of melting snow,” she said, and it was all I could do not to roll my melting snow eyes.
Eyes like streams of melting snow, cold with the things she does not know. Heaven above and Hell beneath, liquid flames to hide her grief. Death, death, death with no release. Death, death, death with no release.
before the gate -- my walking stick's made a river of melting snow
Like streams that keep a summer mind Snow-hid in Jenooary.
O Twilight! Spirit that dost render birth To dim enchantments; melting heaven with earth, Leaving on craggy hills and running streams A softness like the atmosphere of dreams.
Books of natural history make the most cheerful winter reading. I read in Audubon with a thrill of delight, when the snow covers the ground, of the magnolia, and the Florida keys, and their warm sea breezes; of the fence-rail, and the cotton-tree, and the migrations of the rice-bird; of the breaking up of winter in Labrador, and the melting of the snow on the forks of the Missouri; and owe an accession of health to these reminiscences of luxuriant nature.
Whatever enjoyment I might have had at the time would disappear overnight like snow melting on a warm roof.
The snow in the mountains was melting and Bunny had been dead for several weeks before we came to understand the gravity of our situation.
I hear the sounds of melting snow outside my window every night and with the first faint scent of spring, I remember life exists
In the bleak midwinter Frosty wind made moan, Earth stood hard as iron, Water like a stone; Snow had fallen, Snow on snow, Snow on snow, In the bleak midwinter, Long ago.
It must descend, as the dew, upon the tender herb, or like melting flakes of snow; the softer it falls, the longer it dwells upon, and the deeper it sinks into the mind.
Be melting snow. Wash yourself of yourself.
What?" she asked again. He pointed ahead of them. "See that?" "What, the snow?" "Beyond that." "More snow?" "Stop looking at the snow.
America is God's Crucible, the great Melting-Pot where all the races of Europe are melting and re-forming!
All the books of the world full of thoughts and poems are nothing in comparison to a minute of sobbing, when feeling surges in waves, the soul feels itself profoundly and finds itself. Tears are the melting ice of snow. All angels are close to the crying person.
In London the day after Christmas (Boxing Day), it began to snow: my first snow in England. For five years, I had been tactfully asking, 'Do you ever have snow at all?' as I steeled myself to the six months of wet, tepid gray that make up an English winter. 'Ooo, I do remember snow,' was the usual reply, 'when I were a lad.'
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