t besieges the portal, creeps in beneath it and above it, and on every latch and key-handle lodges an advanced guard of white rime.
Leave the door ajar never so slightly, and a chill creeps in cat-like; we are conscious by the warmest fireside of the near vicinity of cold, its fingers are feeling after us, and even if they do not clutch us, we know that they are there.
The sensations of such days almost make us associate their clearness and whiteness with something malignant and evil.
Charles Lamb asserts of snow, It glares too much for an innocent color, methinks.
Why does popular mythology associate the infernal regions with a high temperature instead of a low one?
El Aishi, the Arab writer, says of the bleak wind of the Desert (so writes Richardson, the African traveller), The north wind blows with an intensity equalling the cold of hell; language fails me to describe its rigorous temperature.
Some have thought that there is a similar allusion in the phrase, weeping and gnash