Quotes About Seasons

In the seasons of life, I have had more than my share of summers.

British summers give me a really happy feeling.

The next five months are grim ones. I always feel sorry to have the summertime change, with the dark evenings closing in mid-afternoon, and will try to lay in some physical comforts these months - the best insurance against gloominess for me.

And Fall, with her yeller harvest moon and the hills growin' brown and golden under a sinkin' sun.

Alas, summer sun can't last forever. The days will grow cooler and shorter, and our skin will once again pale.

I can't conceive of cooking in a sunny place like Florida because my motivation comes from the changing seasons. That's why I decided to live in New York.

Earth, my dearest, oh believe me, you no longer need your springtimes to win me over...Unspeakably, I have belonged to you, from the flush.

How I will cherish you then, you grief-torn nights! Had I only received you, inconsolable sisters, on more abject knees, only buried myself with more abandon in your loosened hair. How we waste our afflictions! We study them, stare out beyond them into bleak continuance, hoping to glimpse some end. Whereas they're really our wintering foliage, our dark greens of meaning, one of the seasons of the clandestine year -- ; not only a season --: they're site, settlement, shelter, soil, abode.

In spite of all the farmer's work and worry, he can't reach down to where the seed is slowly transmuted into summer. The earth bestows.

Though he works and worries, the farmer never reaches down to where the seed turns into summer. The earth grants.

you would cry out as purely as a bird when the quickly ascending season lifts him up, nearly forgetting that he is a suffering creature and not just a single heart being flung into brightness, into the intimate skies.

Summer might come after. It does come. But it comes only to the patient ones, who are there as if eternity lay in front of them.

How we waste our afflictions! We study them, stare out beyond them into bleak continuance, hoping to glimpse some end. Whereas they're really our wintering foliage, our dark greens of meaning, one of the seasons of the clandestine year -- ; not only a season --: they're site, settlement, shelter, soil, abode.

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

Over the inter glaciers, I see the summer glow, And, through the wild-piled snowdrift, The warm rosebuds below.

Each moment of the year has its own beauty

you gather apples in the sunshine, or make hay, or

Note that in normal cases of procreation, parents risk bringing a child into a lot of suffering; even the most fortunate of human lives is accompanied by seasons of serious suffering. Even more than that, parents procreate knowing full well that one day the child will suffer death.

What is essential is the sense of God's presence during dark seasons of questioning. . . . Our need for specific answers is dissolved in the greater issue of the lordship of Christ over all questions —those that have answers and those that don't.2 A heart

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.

and sleeping put an end to summer, 1928

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.

The wind whistled, was cool: it was an early autumn evening, no longer a late summer one.

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, all that. But what else. What else? Something, something . . . And on either side of the river was there a tree of life, which bare twelve manner of fruits, and yielded her fruit every month; And the leaves of the tree were for the healing of the nations.