You can’t get too much winter in the winter.

Long stormy spring-time, wet contentious April, winter chilling the lap of very May; but at length the season of summer does come.

Christmas is a season not only of rejoicing but of reflection.

Now is the winter of our discontent.

If I read a book and it makes my whole body so cold no fire can ever warm me, I know that is poetry.

I had slumps that lasted into the winter.

It is the flash which appears, the thunderbolt will follow.

I’ve lived in good climate, and it bores the hell out of me. I like weather rather than climate.

I’m leaving because the weather is too good. I hate London when it’s not raining.

If you think it’s going to rain, it will.

The Eskimos had fifty-two names for snow because it was important to them: there ought to be as many for love.

Continuous eloquence wearies. Grandeur must be abandoned to be appreciated. Continuity in everything is unpleasant. Cold is agreeable, that we may get warm.

We are born at a given moment, in a given place and, like vintage years of wine, we have the qualities of the year and of the season of which we are born. Astrology does not lay claim to anything more.

In the Spring, I have counted 136 different kinds of weather inside of 24 hours.

Bad seed is a robbery of the worst kind: for your pocket-book not only suffers by it, but your preparations are lost and a season passes away unimproved.

Left ear, I wear four earrings. The four is symbolic of the four seasons, spring, winter, summer and fall, the four directions, north, east, south and west, the four gospel writers, Matthew, Mark, Luke and John.

I have always loved blizzards, if only because of the driving experience – which is definitely an acquired taste.

If you saw a heat wave, would you wave back?

The Bay of Bengal is hit frequently by cyclones. The months of November and May, in particular, are dangerous in this regard.

I’ve grown accustomed to hotels and drastic climate change.

It was one of those March days when the sun shines hot and the wind blows cold: when it is summer in the light, and winter in the shade.

I have been in meetings where a head of state will say, ‚I like your tie,‘ to a man… or, ‚I like your country because the weather’s good,‘ or whatever. So for me, the pins in some ways were openers.

All the world lies warm in one heart, yet the Sierra seems to get more light than other mountains. The weather is mostly sunshine embellished with magnificent storms, and nearly everything shines from base to summit – the rocks, streams, lakes, glaciers, irised falls, and the forests of silver fir and silver pine.

Climate is what we expect, weather is what we get.

Love is a fruit in season at all times, and within reach of every hand.

Every season is a new challenge to me, and I always set out to improve in terms of games, goals, assists.

One can find so many pains when the rain is falling.

What a nice night for an evening.

Autumn is a second spring when every leaf is a flower.

The more violent the storm, the quicker it passes.

So comes snow after fire, and even dragons have their ending!

The weather and my mood have little connection. I have my foggy and my fine days within me; my prosperity or misfortune has little to do with the matter.

God is day and night, winter and summer, war and peace, surfeit and hunger.

Predicting rain doesn’t count. Building arks does.

There is no such thing as bad weather, only different kinds of good weather.

There’s not much time to unwind, but you know what, it’s because I love what I do. I look forward to the season. I look forward to playing games. It doesn’t ever feel like work.

I agree with people like Richard Dawkins that mankind felt the need for creation myths. Before we really began to understand disease and the weather and things like that, we sought false explanations for them. Now science has filled in some of the realm – not all – that religion used to fill.

I am proud to have been born in Iowa. Through the eyes of a ten-year-old boy, it was a place of adventure and daily discoveries – the wonder of the growing crops, the excitements of the harvest, the journeys to the woods for nuts and hunting, the joys of snowy winters, the comfort of the family fireside, of good food and tender care.

Despite all I have seen and experienced, I still get the same simple thrill out of glimpsing a tiny patch of snow in a high mountain gully and feel the same urge to climb towards it.

It’s going to be a season with lots of accidents, and I’ll risk saying that we’ll be lucky if something really serious doesn’t happen.

I love the scents of winter! For me, it’s all about the feeling you get when you smell pumpkin spice, cinnamon, nutmeg, gingerbread and spruce.

The Indian Summer of life should be a little sunny and a little sad, like the season, and infinite in wealth and depth of tone, but never hustled.

Conversation about the weather is the last refuge of the unimaginative.

During the season, most of my time to unwind is in my car ride home. When I get home, it’s being with my kids.

In the depth of winter I finally learned that there was in me an invincible summer.

Thaw with her gentle persuasion is more powerful than Thor with his hammer. The one melts, the other breaks into pieces.

The long, dull, monotonous years of middle-aged prosperity or middle-aged adversity are excellent campaigning weather for the devil.

I’m not a good storm-outer… because I forget stuff.

Eventually you won’t think of ‚the Internet business.‘ You’ll think of it more like news, weather, sports, but even that taxonomy isn’t clear.

Thunder is good, thunder is impressive; but it is lightning that does the work.

London is too full of fogs and serious people. Whether the fogs produce the serious people, or whether the serious people produce the fogs, I don’t know.

Sunshine is delicious, rain is refreshing, wind braces us up, snow is exhilarating; there is really no such thing as bad weather, only different kinds of good weather.

Lightning is something which, again, we would rather avoid.

There’s nothing more comfortable or leisurely than having a pair of Ugg slippers on in the house.

The Bermuda Triangle got tired of warm weather. It moved to Alaska. Now Santa Claus is missing.