Quotes About Seasons

You have to go to Scotland at all times of the year - in order to appreciate the times when the sun does come out.

I like to wear things for longer than one season.

I may like L.A., but I want to know when the seasons are.

I've learned in my life that things change. Seasons changes, times change. We take different jobs. Our children grow. So, we have to study the people in our lives and adapt to them, because when we do that, we get more out of our relationships.

When you start as an actor, you can only hope you'll be able to act at all - let alone on a show that lasts seven seasons.

You know how things go in football. Seasons are long, and you have to see how things progress.

The seasons fly by so you have to make the most of every season and enjoy it, which is always something I try to do.

Going back to my playing days, I was at Cambridge United for a couple of seasons, and, of course, Newmarket is just down the road. On my days off, I would go to Newmarket quite often, park up by the gallops, and watch the horses work. It was something else.

I love how close New York is to Europe; I love the seasons, and I don't think I could live without them. They're the way I track the passage of time.

In the midst of a thousand clouds and countless waters there is an idle person. By day, he roams the green mountains, at night, he returns to sleep beneath the cliff. Quickly, the seasons pass in serenity, with no worldly bonds. How joyful! What does he depend upon? Quiet, like a large autumn river.

I prefer the notions of seasons to stages when describing our life in Christ. We don't control the seasons; they happen to us. Winter, spring, summer, and fall come to us whether we like it or not.

Es wurde Herbst und Winter. Es wurde Sommer. Es wurde dunkel, und es wurde hell.

The Trees The trees are coming into leaf Like something almost being said; The recent buds relax and spread, Their greenness is a kind of grief. Is it that they are born again And we grow old? No, they die too. Their yearly trick of looking new Is written down in rings of grain. Yet still the unresting castles thresh In fullgrown thickness every May. Last year is dead, they seem to say, Begin afresh, afresh, afresh.

It is only in winter that you can tell which trees are evergreen.

I live on a plane. I like to visit London. If I had to think where I could live if not Moscow, London would be my first choice, and second would be New York. In Moscow I feel most comfortable. I'm used to four different seasons; it's difficult for people in London to understand. People brought up in Russia like my kids want to play in the snow.

He thought of calling her again, if only to resupply himself with shame, but the purity of the hurt of losing her was of a piece with the season's dark afternoons and long nights.

In my dream, spring came after summer, came after fall, came after winter, came after spring.

It breaks your heart. It is designed to break your heart. The game begins in spring, when everything else begins again, and it blossoms in the summer, filling the afternoons and evenings, and then as soon as the chill rains come, it stops and leaves you to face the fall alone.

Now, of my threescore years and ten, Twenty will not come again, And take from seventy springs a score, It only leaves me fifty more. And since to look at things in bloom Fifty springs are little room, About the woodlands I will go To see the cherry hung with snow.

June suns, you cannot store them To warm the winter's cold...

Loveliest of Trees Loveliest of trees, the cherry now Is hung with bloom along the bough, And stands about the woodland ride Wearing white for Eastertide. Now, of my threescore years and ten, Twenty will not come again, And take from seventy springs a score, It only leaves me fifty more. And since to look at things in bloom Fifty springs are little room, About the woodlands I will go To see the cherry hung with snow.

The year might age, and cloudy The lessening day might close, But air of other summers Breathed from beyond the snows, And I had hope of those. They came and were and are not And come no more anew; And all the years and seasons That ever can ensue Must now be worse and few. So here's an end of roaming On eves when autumn nighs: The ear too fondly listens For summer's parting sighs, And then the heart replies.

LOVELIEST of trees, the cherry now Is hung with bloom along the bough, And stands about the woodland ride Wearing white for Eastertide.

How strange this silent longing for death, as if you could make the sun not come up, the world's wheeling and wheeling its seasons like a cruel continuation of stubborn force.