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The pure air and dazzling snow belong to things beyond the reach of all personal feeling, almost beyond the reach of life. Yet such things are a part of our life, neither the least noble nor the most terrible.

It is with words as with sunbeams - the more they are condensed, the deeper they burn.

Frost is the greatest artist in our clime - he paints in nature and describes in rime.

Nature is full of genius, full of the divinity; so that not a snowflake escapes its fashioning hand.

Forests, lakes, and rivers, clouds and winds, stars and flowers, stupendous glaciers and crystal snowflakes - every form of animate or inanimate existence, leaves its impress upon the soul of man.

It's so fascinating to think about how each snowflake is completely individual - there are millions and millions of them, but each one is so unique.

Black frost. The ground is hard, the air tastes bitter. Your stars cluster in evil signs.

Every particular in nature, a leaf, a drop, a crystal, a moment of time is related to the whole, and partakes of the perfection of the whole.

The more living patterns there are in a place - a room, a building, or a town - the more it comes to life as an entirety, the more it glows, the more it has that self-maintaining fire which is the quality without a name.

There are as many pillows of illusion as flakes in a snow-storm. We wake from one dream into another dream.