A sap run is the sweet goodbye of winter. It is the fruit of the equal marriage of the sun and frost.

It is the life of the crystal, the architect of the flake, the fire of the frost, the soul of the sunbeam. This crisp winter air is full of it.

He who marvels at the beauty of the world in summer will find equal cause for wonder and admiration in winter.

The tendinous part of the mind, so to speak, is more developed in winter; the fleshy, in summer. I should say winter had given the bone and sinew to literature, summer the tissues and the blood.

It was a black and white day of frost, which crawled along the dark trees and outlined twig and branch. The air was misty, and distant objects assumed a mysterious importance. Slight sounds, too, suggested infinite activities to the mind.

("A Tribute Of Souls")

December's wintery breath is already clouding the pond, frosting the pane, obscuring summer's memory...