81 Seasons Quotes

Autumn to winter, winter into spring, Spring into summer, summer into fall, - So rolls the changing year, and so we change; Motion so swift, we know not that we move.

Tell me not here, it needs not saying, What tune the enchantress plays In aftermaths of soft September Or under blanching mays, For she and I were long acquainted And I knew all her ways.

In warlike pomp, with banners flowing, The regiments of autumn stood: I saw their gold and scarlet glowing From every hillside, every wood.

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.

I am a worker, a tombstone mason, anxious to pleace averyburies and jully glad when Christmas comes his once ayear.

The day becomes more solemn and serene When noon is past; there is a harmony In autumn, and a lustre in its sky, Which through the summer is not heard or seen, As if it could not be, as if it had not been! Thus let thy power, which like the truth Of nature on my passive youth Descended, to my onward life supply Its calm, to one who worships thee, And every form containing thee, Whom, SPIRIT fair, thy spells did bind To fear himself, and love all human kind.

Put forth thy leaf, thou lofty plane, East wind and frost are safely gone; With zephyr mild and balmy rain The summer comes serenely on; Earth, air, and sun and skies combine To promise all that's kind and fair:- But thou, O human heart of mine, Be still, contain thyself, and bear.

Nothing is so beautiful as Spring- When weeds, in wheels, shoot long and lovely and lush; Thrush's eggs look little low heavens, and thrush Through the echoing timber does so rinse and wring The ear, it strikes like lightning to hear him sing.

In those vernal seasons of the year, when the air is calm and pleasant, it were an injury and sullenness against Nature not to go out, and see her riches, and partake in her rejoicing with heaven and earth.

It is the month of June, The month of leaves and roses, When pleasant sights salute the eyes, And pleasant scents the noses.

The short winter's day was drawing to a close. It seems to me sometimes that these are the only days I have ever known, and especially that most charming moment of all, just before night wipes them out.

Last dance with Mary Jane, one more time to kill the pain. I feel summer creepin' in and I'm tired of this town again.

The summer morn is bright and fresh, the birds are darting by, As if they loved to breast the breeze that sweeps the cool clear sky.

When April winds Grew soft, the maple burst into a flush Of scarlet flowers. The tulip tree, high up, Opened in airs of June her multitude Of golden chalices to humming-birds And silken-wing'd insects of the sky.

And suns grow meek, and the meek suns grow brief, And the year smiles as it draws near its death.

Glorious are the woods in their latest gold and crimson, Yet our full-leaved willows are in the freshest green. Such a kindly autumn, so mercifully dealing With the growths of summer, I never yet have seen.

I remember, I remember How my childhood fleeted by,- The mirth of its December And the warmth of its July.

Autumn to winter, winter into spring, Spring into summer, summer into fall, - So rolls the changing year, and so we change; Motion so swift, we know not that we move.

Listen. With faint dry sound, Like steps of passing ghosts, The leaves, frost-crisp'd, break from the trees And fall.

A snowball is simple, direct and familiar to most of us. I use this simplicity as a container for feelings and ideas that function on many levels. Occasionally I have come across a last patch of snow on top of a mountain in late May or June. There's something very powerful about finding snow in summer. It's as if the whole of winter has drained through that white hole - a concentration of winter.

Folds of scarlet drapery shut in my view to the right hand; to the left were the clear panes of glass, protecting, but not separating me from the drear November day. At intervals, while turning over the leaves in my book, I studied the aspect of that winter afternoon. Afar, it offered a pale blank of mist and cloud; near, a scene of wet lawn and storm-beat shrub, with ceaseless rain sweeping away wildly before a long and lamentable blast.

Whan that Aprill with his shoures soote The droghte of March hath perced to the roote, And bathed every veyne in swych licour Of which vertu engendred is the flour; Whan Zephirus eek with his sweete breeth Inspired hath in every holt and heeth The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne Hath in the Ram his halve cours yronne, And smale foweles maken melodye, That slepen al the nyght with open ye (So priketh hem nature in hir corages); Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages.

And what is so rare as a day in June? Then, if ever, come perfect days; Then Heaven tries the earth if it be in tune, And over it softly her warm ear lays: Whether we look, or whether we listen, We hear life murmur, or see it glisten; Every clod feels a stir of might, An instinct within it that reaches and towers, And, grasping blindly above it for light, Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers.

There is not wind enough to twirl The one red leaf, the last of its clan, That dances as often as dance it can, Hanging so light, and hanging so high, On the topmost twig that looks up at the sky.

All Nature seems at work. Slugs leave their lair - The bees are stirring - birds are on the wing - And WINTER slumbering in the open air, Wears on his smiling face a dream of Spring! And I the while, the sole unbusy thing, Nor honey make, nor pair, nor build, nor sing.

it's spring when the world is puddle-wonderful

Sweet April-time - O cruel April-time! Year after year returning, with a brow Of promise, and red lips with longing paled, And backward-hidden hands that clutch the joys Of vanished springs, like flowers.

The earth with yellow pears And overgrown with roses wild Upon the pond is bent, And swans divine, With kisses drunk You drop your heads In the sublimely sobering water. But where, with winter come, am I To find, alas, the floweres, and where The sunshine And the shadow of the world? Cold the walls stand And the wordless, in the wind The weathercocks are rattling.

Summer ends now; now, barbarous in beauty, the stooks arise Around; up above, what wind-walks! what lovely behaviour Of silk-sack clouds! has wilder, wilful-wavier Meal-drift moulded ever and melted across skies?

The voice of one who goes before, to make The paths of June more beautiful, is thine Sweet May!

O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being, Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing, Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red, Pestilence-stricken multitudes: O thou, Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed.

wholly to be a fool while Spring is in the world my blood approves, and kisses are a better fate than wisdom

I felt a joy in my heart, which seemed filled with love, love for the sun, the snow, the wind and the hills, love for everything around me. It was in this mood that I walked down the snow-covered path dotted with black footprints. Further down the footprints mingled and made dirty little puddles. I picked my way over the thickest snow because I loved the crunching of snow underfoot. With the sunlight pouring down and a breeze in my face I felt that balmy spring was coming to meet me.

So breaks the sun earth's rugged chains, Wherein rude winter bound her veins; So grows both stream and source of price, That lately fettered were with ice. So naked trees get crisped heads, And coloured coats the roughest meads, And all get vigour, youth and spright, That are but looked on by his light.

Lovers walk in the noontime by that fountain. Pigeons dip their beaks to drink from the water. And soon the pond must freeze.

I just love autumn in New York - watching the birds change color and fall from the trees.

One only leaf upon the top of a tree - the sole remaining leaf - danced round and round like a rag blown by the wind.

The seasons come and the seasons go, the summer fruit and the winter snow, but here we are, and here we stay - until the time to go away. Ah, they say, there's a land that is great, and is grand; there's no fear, and no pain - we will all live again - and everyone will find the ones they love.

For May wol have no slogardie a-night. The seson priketh every gentil herte, And maketh him out of his slepe to sterte.

Margaret, are you grieving Over Goldengrove unleaving?

It is a real chill out. The fall crisp comes I am aware there is winter to heed. There is no warm house That is fitted with my need.

'Tis Summer Time on Bredon, And now the farmers swear: The cattle rise and listen In valleys far and near, And blush at what they hear. But when the mists in autumn On Bredon top are thick, And happy hymns of farmers Go up from fold and rick, The cattle then are sick.

The Maple puts her corals on in May, While loitering frosts about the lowlands cling, To be in tune with what the robins sing.

Come, gentle Spring! ethereal mildness, come.

When the gust hath blown his fill, Ending on the rustling leaves With minute drops from off the eaves.

See how I fall like the snow, Come to cover the lovers, (But don't you wake them up) Come to sparkle the dark up, With just a touch of make up. Come to cover the muck up. Ooh with a little luck - December will be magic again.

Popsicles are for the summertime...

Thou dirge Of the dying year, to which this closing night Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre, Vaulted with all thy congregated might.

And when his hours are numbered, and the world Is all his own, retiring, as he were not, Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone Built in an age, the mad wind's night-work, The frolic architecture of the snow.

'It was ideal apple-eating weather; the whitest sunlight descended from the purest sky, and an easterly wind rustled, without ripping loose, the last of the leaves on the Chinese elms. Autumns reward western Kansas for the evils at the remaining seasons impose: winter's rough Colorado winds and hip-high, sheep slaughtering snows; the slushes and the strange land fogs of spring; and summer, when even crows seek the puny shade, and the tawny infinitude of wheatstalks bristle, blaze.'

Leaves of brown they fall to the ground. And it's here, over there leaves around. Shut the door, dim the lights and relax. What is more, your desire or the facts?

'Spring and All' from Spring and All (1923)

Five years have passed; five summers, with the length Of five long winters! and again I hear These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs With a sweet inland murmur. -Once again Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs, Which on a wild secluded scene impress Thoughts of more deep seclusion; and connect The landscape with the quiet of the sky.

Ye blessed Creatures, I have heard the call Ye to each other make; I see The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee; My heart is at your festival, My head hath its coronal, The fulness of your bliss, I feel- I feel it all. Oh evil day! if I were sullen While the Earth herself is adorning, This sweet May-morning.

Winter draws what summer paints.

En breu brizara'l temps braus E'l biza, e'l brus e'l blancx Qui s'entresenhon trastuig De sobre claus ram de fuelha.

because it's Spring thingS dare to do people

O killing north wind, cease! Come, south wind, that awakenest love! Blow through my garden, And let its odours flow, And the Beloved shall feed among the flowers. ~ 17

In the big house Where the sun lives With the walls so white and blue In the red soil All the green grows And the winds blow across your face They blow across your heart It's the time of the turning and there's something stirring outside It's the time of turning and we'd better learn to say our goodbyes

Ho! 'tis the time of salads.

'...I like spring, but it is too young. I like summer, but it is too proud. So I like best of all autumn, because its leaves are a little yellow, its tone mellower, its colours richer, and it is tinged a little with sorrow and a premonition of death. Its golden richness speaks not of the innocence of spring, nor of the power of summer, but of the mellowness and kindly wisdom of approaching age. It knows the limitations of life and is content. From a knowledge of those limitations and its richness of experience emerges a symphony of colours, richer than all, its green speaking of life and strength, its orange speaking of golden content and its purple of resignation and death. ...' (p.328 Epilogue)

But winter lingering chills the lap of May.

In winter I get up at night And dress by yellow candle-light. In summer quite the other way, I have to go to bed by day.

There is no sign of leaf or bud, A hush is over everything - Silent as women wait for love, The world is waiting for the spring.

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

Autumn's the mellow time.

Oh, bring again my heart's content, Thou Spirit of the Summer-time!

On Tropical Storm Zeta in 2005/2006: