33 Season Quotes

A cold coming they had of it, at this time of the year; just the worst time of the year to take a journey, and specially a long journey, in.

As it fell upon a day In the merry month of May, Sitting in a pleasant shade Which a grove of myrtles made.

It was evening all afternoon. It was snowing And it was going to snow. The blackbird sat In the cedar-limbs.

In the Spring a livelier iris changes on the burnish'd dove; In the Spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love.

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December; And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.

I heard through the night The rush and the clamour; The pulse of the fight Like blows of Thor's hammer; The pattering flight Of the leaves, and the anguished Moan of the forest vanquished.

No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease, No comfortable feel in any member- No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees, No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds- November!

And forth into the fields I went, And Nature's living motion lent The pulse of hope to discontent. I wonder'd at the bounteous hours, The slow result of winter showers: You scarce could see the grass for flowers. I wonder'd, while I paced along: The woods were fill'd so full with song, There seem'd no room for sense of wrong.

Now sleeps the crimson petal, now the white; Nor waves the cypress in the palace walk; Nor winks the gold fin in the porphyry font: The fire-fly wakens: waken thou with me.

Now, when our Lord was come to eighteen years, The King commanded that there should be built Three stately houses, one of hewn square beams With cedar lining, warm for winter days; One of veined marbles, cool for summer heat; And one of burned bricks, with blue tiles bedecked, Pleasant at seed-time, when the champaks bud-- Subha, Suramma, Ramma, were their names. Delicious gardens round about them bloomed, Streams wandered wild and musky thickets stretched, With many a bright pavilion and fair lawn In midst of which Siddartha strayed at will, Some new delight provided every hour; And happy hours he knew, for life was rich, With youthful blood at quickest; yet still came The shadows of his meditation back, As the lake's silver dulls with driving clouds.

I shall not sing a May song. A May song should be gay. I'll wait until November And sing a song of gray.

December will be magic again. Don't miss the brightest star, Kiss under mistletoe, I want to hear you laugh, Don't let the mystery go now.

As for my birth month, a detail of much interest to poets, obsessed as they are with symbolic systems of all kinds: I was not pleased, during my childhood, to have been born in November, as there wasn't much inspiration for birthday party motifs. February children got hearts, May ones flowers, but what was there for me? A cake surrounded by withered leaves? November was a drab, dark and wet month, lacking even snow; its only noteworthy festival was Remembrance Day. But in adult life I discovered that November was, astrologically speaking, the month of sex, death and regeneration, and that November First was the Day of the Dead. It still wouldn't have been much good for birthday parties, but it was just fine for poetry, which tends to revolve a good deal around sex and death, with regeneration optional.

In the winter season, For seven days of calm, Alcyone Broods over her nest on the surface of the waters While the sea-waves are quiet. Through this time Aeolus keeps his winds at home, and ocean Is smooth for his descendants' sake.

Herr: es ist Zeit. Der Sommer war sehr gro?. Leg deinen Schatten auf die Sonnenuhren, und auf den Fluren la? die Winde los.

The summer skies are darkly blue, The days are still and bright, And Evening trails her robes of gold Through the dim halls of Night.

The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sere.

So feast your eyes now On mimic star and moon-cold bauble: Worlds may wither unseen, But the Christmas Tree is a tree of fable, A phoenix in evergreen

Wrong will be right, when Aslan comes in sight, At the sound of his roar, sorrows will be no more, When he bares his teeth, winter meets its death, And when he shakes his mane, we shall have spring again. (ch. 8)

No spring, nor summer beauty hath such grace, As I have seen in one autumnal face.

Perhaps when all the world is bare And cruel winter holds the land, The Love that finds no place to hide Will run and catch my hand. I shall not care to have him then, I shall be bitter and a-cold - It grows too late for frolicking When all the world is old. Then little hiding Love, come forth, Come forth before the autumn goes, And let us seek thro' ruined paths The garden's last red rose.

The smoking butt end of the year, November's dark iron has come to Tarker's Mills.

Tantarrara! the joyous Book of Spring Lies open, writ in blossoms.

The corn was springing fresh and green, And the lark sang loud and high, And the red was on your lip, Mary, And the love-light in your eye.

On Tropical Storm Juliette in 2007: