Quotes About Seasons

Music, or a voice; just some trick of the river on stones, the breeze in the hollow oak? The wood had a million voices, changing with every season and every day; you could never know them all.

The bitterness of joy lies in the knowledge that it cannot last. Nor should joy last beyond a certain season, for, after that season, even joy would become merely habit.

You nights of anguish. Why didn't I kneel more deeply to accept you, Inconsolable sisters, and, surrendering, lose myself in your loosened hair. How we squander our hours of pain. How we gaze beyond them into the bitter duration To see if they have an end. Though they are really Seasons of us, our winter …

To a hikikomori, winter is painful because everything feels cold, frozen over, and lonely. To a hikikomori, spring is also painful because everyone is in a good mood and therefore enviable. Summer, of course, is especially painful...

My mom would have different fragrances for different times of the year. They were a part of her identity. I don't remember the specific ones she used, but I remember the bottles.

I love organization, so I split my clothes into two closets according to seasons.

I asked my old man if I could go ice-skating on the lake. He told me, "Wait til it gets warmer."

He ought to entertain the people with festivals and spectacles at convenient seasons of the year … always maintaining the majesty of his rank, for this he must never consent to abate in anything.

I love autumn, Emily said to me. It wins you over with its mute appeal to sympathy for its decay.

I've seen a lot of seasons, change in my time. It's been a very lucky life.

If you are winter, then I am spring

Like a long train which stops at every dingy little station, the winter dragged slowly past.

Her friend had seen eighty summers, she, seventy-five.

Winter is on my head, but eternal spring is in my heart.

It was the very bleakness of winter that made spring possible.

June is spring, July is summer, August is autumn, and everything else is winter.

Some years June is spring, July is summer, August is autumn, and everything else is winter.

Soon, the crops would be planted. By July, the corn would be as tall as a man and go on forever. By October, the leaves would be brownish gold and thin as paper,and when the early winter winds came, the rustling stalks would sound like a hive of bees. That was the cycle of the land, the measure of time. Everything in her daddy's world had been tacked to seasons. Things came and went and lived and died according to sunlight.

When she was little, Elizabeth had often cried when her mama's favorite flowers wilted and died. Now, though, as a woman full grown, she understood the importance of rest. It was the very bleakness of winter that made spring possible.

When I no longer thrill to the first snow of the season, I'll know I'm growing old.

There are places and climates, seasons and hours, with their outward circumstance, so much in harmony with certain impressions of the heart, that Nature and the soul of man appear to be parts of one vast whole.

Jem: I know what you're thinking. Tessa:I don't think you do. You're think, If they call this damp nastiness summer, what must winter be like? You'd be surprised. Winter's actually much the same. It's spring that's really lovely. Tessa:Is it? Jem:No. It's actually quite foggy and wet as well.

I like to abide by the seasons and let the natural flavor in food speak for itself. I use quick cooking techniques of high heat with very little fat, such as quick saute or wok stir-frying.

At the end of the summer the sea always seems to be railing against the thought of another long, fierce New England winter.