Frankly, the trouble with winter is, it is all backbone. It is fleshless, insensate, with neither a breast to be leaned on nor a heart to love and ache and, if need be, break, nor any kindly hand to fondle… — William Alfred Quayle Copy Share Image
But Shakespeare knows what the sphinx thinks, if anybody does. His genius is penetrative as cold midwinter entering every room, and making warmth shiver… — William Alfred Quayle Copy Share Image
Winter is ruthless and sometimes sullen and murderous. The wild winter North has gulped ten thousand summers down nor left a froth of sunshine… — William Alfred Quayle Copy Share Image
Winter is on the road to spring. Some think it a surly road. I do not. A primrose road to spring were not as… — William Alfred Quayle Copy Share Image
Frankly, the trouble with winter is, it is all backbone. It is fleshless, insensate, with neither a breast to be leaned on nor a… — William Alfred Quayle Copy Share Image
Winter is not an end. It is in transit. It is headed to bankruptcy. The sheriff will sell its stock for what he can… — William Alfred Quayle Copy Share Image
Winter's notion of poetry is tragedy. It knows nothing of comedy. Its laughter was frozen on its lips long ago. — William Alfred Quayle Copy Share Image
