Seasons Quotes

The first day of spring is one thing, and the first spring day is another. The difference between them is sometimes as great as a month.

Short summers lightly have a forward spring.

In every winter's heart there is a quivering spring, and behind the veil of each night there is a shining dawn.

Nature gives to every time and season some beauties of its own.

Through winter-time we call on spring,And through the spring on summer call,And when the abounding hedges ringDeclare that winter's best of all:And after that there's nothing goodBecause the spring time has not come-Not know that what disturbs our bloodIs but its longing for the tomb.

When the ground was partially bare of snow, and a few warm days had dried its surface somewhat, it was pleasant to compare the first tender signs of the infant year just peeping forth with the stately beauty of the withered vegetation which had withstood the winterdecent weeds, at least, which widowed Nature wears.

Summer lasts not for ever; seasons succeed each other.

Not the sun or summer alone, but every hour and season yields its tribute of delight.

In August, the large masses of berries, which, when in flower, had attracted many wild bees, gradually assumed their bright velvety crimson hue, and by their weight again bent down and broke their tender limbs.

You can't get too much winter in the winter.

The seasons alter: hoary-headed frostsFall in the fresh lap of the crimson rose,And on old Hiems' thin and icy crownAn odorous chaplet of sweet summer budsIs, as in mockery, set. The spring, the summer,The childing autumn, angry winter, changeTheir wonted liveries, and the mazed world,By their increase, now knows not which is which.

As I love nature, as I love singing birds, and gleaming stubble, and flowing rivers, and morning and evening, and summer and winter, I love thee, my Friend.

Well-apparel'd April on the heelOf limping Winter treads.

I pray that the life of this spring and summer may ever lie fair in my memory.

You may tell by looking at any twig of the forest, ay, at your very wood-pile, whether its winter is past or not.

I love cuffing season. It's a very inspiring season for those who want to be inspired.

It was one of those March days when the sun shines hot and the wind blows cold: when it is summer in the light, and winter in the shade.

For some things there are no wrong seasons. Which is what I dream of for me.

The sun was warm but the wind was chill. You know how it is with an April day. When the sun is out and the wind is still, You're one month on in the middle of May. But if you so much as dare to speak, a cloud come over the sunlit arch, And wind comes off a frozen peak, And you're two months back in the middle of March.

The seasons change their manners, as the yearHad found some months asleep and leapt them over.

Hot lavender, mints, savory, marjoram; The marigold, that goes to bed wi' the sun, and with him rise weeping.

The year is getting to feel rich, for his golden fruits are ripening fast, and he has a large balance in the barns, which are his banks. The members of his family have found out that he is well to do in the world. September is dressing herself in show of dahlias and splendid marigolds and starry zinnias. October, the extravagant sister, has ordered an immense amount of the most gorgeous forest tapestry for her grand reception.

The wonderful purity of nature at this season is a most pleasing fact.... In the bare fields and tinkling woods, see what virtue survives. In the coldest and bleakest places, the warmest charities still maintain a foothold.

The days are short,The sun a sparkHung thin betweenThe dark and dark.

Inside of us, there's a continual autumn. Our leaves fall and are blown out over the water.

Indeed the river is a perpetual gala, and boasts each month a new ornament.

The phenomena of the year take place every day in a pond on a small scale. Every morning, generally speaking, the shallow water isbeing warmed more rapidly than the deep, though it may not be made so warm after all, and every evening it is being cooled more rapidly until the morning. The day is an epitome of the year. The night is the winter, the morning and evening are the spring and fall, and the noon is the summer. The cracking and booming of the ice indicate a change of temperature.

Part of you died each year when the leaves fell from the trees and their branches were bare against the wind and the cold, wintry light.

Nature seemed to have adorned herself for our departure with a profusion of fringes and curls, mingled with the bright tints of flowers, reflected in the water. But we missed the white water-lily, which is the queen of river flowers, its reign being over for this season.... Many of this species inhabit our Concord water.

Sir, the year growing ancient,Not yet on summer's death nor on the birthOf trembling winter, the fairest flowers o' th' seasonAre our carnations and streaked gillyvors,Which some call nature's bastards.

Every blade in the field - Every leaf in the forest - lays down its life in its season as beautifully as it was taken up.

Spring. March fans it, April christens it, and May puts on its jacket and trousers.

We loiter in winter while it is already spring.

October is the month for painted leaves. Their rich glow now flashes round the world. As fruits and leaves and the day itself acquire a bright tint just before they fall, so the year near its setting. October is its sunset sky; November the later twilight.

The sun was warm but the wind was chill. You know how it is with an April day.

Dirty days hath SeptemberApril June and NovemberFrom January up to MayThe rain it raineth every dayAll the rest have thirty-oneWithout a blessed gleam of sunAnd if any of them had two-and-thirtyThey'd be just as wet and twice as dirty.""April hath put a spirit of youth in everything.

Autumn is really the best of the seasons; and I'm not sure that old age isn't the best part of life.

To everything there is a season. Yes. A time to break down, and a time to build up. Yes. A time to keep silence and a time to speak. Yes.

If I was ever a rare fine summer person, that's long ago. Most of us are half-and-half. The August noon in us works to stave off the November chills. We survive by what little Fourth of July wits we've stashed away. But there are times when we're all autumn people.

For nature gives to every time and season some beauties of its own; and from morning to night, as from the cradle to the grave, it is but a succession of changes so gentle and easy that we can scarcely mark their progress.

One must maintain a little bittle of summer, even in the middle of winter.

Earth in beauty dressedAwaits returning spring.All true love must die,Alter at the bestInto some lesser thing.Prove that I lie.

I have heard it said that winter, too, will pass, that spring is a sign that summer is due at last. See, all we have to do is hang on.

Not only is the day waning, but the year. The low sun is fiery and yet cold behind the monastery ruin, and the Virginia creeper on the Cathedral wall has showered half its deep-red leaves down on the pavement. There has been rain this afternoon, and a wintry shudder goes among the little pools on the cracked, uneven flag-stones, and through the giant elm-trees as they shed a gust of tears.

Anyone can be a fisherman in May.

And so the seasons went rolling on into summer, as one rambles into higher and higher grass.

... the spring, the summer, The chilling autumn, angry winter, change Their wonted liveries; and the mazed world By their increase, now knows not which is which.

That grand old poem called Winter

Nature confounds her summer distinctions at this season. The heavens seem to be nearer the earth. The elements are less reserved and distinct. Water turns to ice, rain to snow. The day is but a Scandinavian night. The winter is an arctic summer.

Thus sometimes hath the brightest day a cloud;And after summer evermore succeedsBarren winter, with his wrathful nipping cold:So cares and joys abound, as seasons fleet.

Winter is the time for study, you know, and the colder it is the more studious we are.

It is good even to be a fisherman in summer and in winter.

I enjoy the spring more than the autumn now. One does, I think, as one gets older.

Baseball begins in the spring, the season of new life. Football begins in the fall, when everything's dying.

As long as I have the friendship of the sesasons life will never be a burden to me.

The thinnest yellow light of November is more warming and exhilarating than any wine they tell of. The mite which November contributes becomes equal in value to the bounty of July.

You expected to be sad in the fall. Part of you died each year when the leaves fell from the trees and their branches were bare against the wind and the cold, wintery light. But you knew there would always be the spring, as you knew the river would flow again after it was frozen. When the cold rains kept on and killed the spring, it was as though a young person died for no reason.

I'm laying out my winter clothes and wishing I was gone, Going home, where the new york city winters aren't bleedin' me.

Summer is a discouraging time to work - you don't feel death coming on the way it does in the fall when the boys really put pen to paper.

I would not a bit mind sleeping in the cool grass in summer, and when winter came on sheltering myself by the warm close-thatched rick, or under the penthouse of a great barn, provided I had love in my heart.