Long stormy spring-time, wet contentious April, winter chilling the lap of very May; but at length the season of summer does come
There is something incredibly nostalgic and significant about the annual cascade of autumn leaves.
January gray is here, like a sexton by her grave; February bears the bier, march with grief doth howl and rave, and April weeps -- but, O ye hours! Follow with May's fairest flowers.
Summer afternoon -- summer afternoon; to me those have always been the two most beautiful words in the English language.
To be interested in the changing seasons is, in this middling zone, a happier state of mind than to be hopelessly in love with spring.
Winter, a bad guest, sitteth with me at home; blue are my hands with his friendly handshaking
I believe in process. I believe in four seasons. I believe that winter's tough, but spring's coming. I believe that there's a growing season. And I think that you realize that in life, you grow. You get better.
But like of each thing that in season grows.
But then fall comes, kicking summer out on its treacherous ass as it always does one day sometime after the midpoint of September, it stays awhile like an old friend that you have missed. It settles in the way an old friend will settle into your favorite chair and take out his pipe and light it and then fill the afternoon with stories of places he has been and things he has done since last he saw you.
The seasons are what a symphony ought to be: four perfect movements in harmony with each other.
April is the cruellest month, breedingLilacs out of the dead land, mixingMemory out of desire, stirringDull roots with spring rain.Winter kept us warm, coveringEarth in a forgetful snow, feedingA little life with dried tubers.
April is the cruelest month, breeding lilacs out of the dead land, mixing memory and desire, stirring dull roots with spring rain.
Every year, back come Spring, with nasty little birds yapping their fool heads off and the ground all mucked up with plants.
April comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.
In the depth of winter, I finally learned that within me there lay an invincible summer.
Autumn is a second spring where every leaf is a flower
And you would accept the seasons of your heart just as you have always accepted that seasons pass over your fields and you would watch with serenity through the winters of your grief.
February, when the days of winter seem endless and no amount of wistful recollecting can bring back any air of summer.
Indoors or out, no one relaxes in March, that month of wind and taxes, the wind will presently disappear, the taxes last us all the year.
One swallow does not make a summer, but one skein of geese, cleaving the murk of March thaw, is the Spring.
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