Winter is on the road to spring. Some think it a surly road. I do not. A primrose road to spring were not as engaging to my heart as a frozen icicled craggy way angered over by strong winds that… — 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 in ague fits. I think Shakespeare never errs in his logical sequence in character. He surprises… — 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
