Snow falls, and once again the wonder of childhood is upon us. At first a few separate flakes float down slowly, one by one; then more, faster and faster, filling our eyes with dazzling, dancing whiteness. The movement is more mysterious because it is silent: dancing, wild dancing, with no sound, like voiceless singing.
If it made even the tiny tap of hail it would seem to fall into our world, but the silence is absolute; it is we who are walking in another world, a world in which we are ghosts. The falling flakes touch our faces with unimaginable lightness and melt on the faint warmth of our blood, at once elusive and intimate.
— Caryll Houselander, Wood of the Cradle, Wood of the Cross