Quotes About Seasons

My world has no time except the seasons and the perspectives of youth and old age.

A maple that has yielded up its life Season on sugar-season—oh, what can be More tragic in its beauty than a maple: Swollen and scarred of trunk, and varicose From gashes in the bark, from too many wounds Of too many spiles that let out too much sap, From too much giving, giving for ninety years, For ninety Moons-of-Maple-Sugar-Making, For ninety Moons-of-Gathering-of-Wild-Rice, For ninety Moons-of-the-Falling-of-the-Leaves, For ninety Moons-of-the-Coming-of-the-Snow.

But Fielding lived when the days were longer (for time, like money, is measured by our needs), when summer afternoons were spacious, and the clock ticked slowly in the winter evenings.

February thought on the human condition: Now is when we complain if the house isn't as warm as it was in the summer, when we complained about the heat.

I was just thinking, if it really is religion with these nudist colonies they sure must turn atheists in the Winter time.

When dark December glooms the day, And takes our autumn joys away; When short and scant the sun-beam throws Upon the weary waste of snows...

Winter is a lean, scrappy fighter. Spring blossoms from the sweat of Winter's brow.

Not at home to callers Says the naked tree – Jacket due in April. Wishing you good day.

Winter starves our bellies but nourishes our souls.

The last faded autumn leaflet hangs from a frozen branch, just a short fall from the tree to winter.

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

It's peeking round the corner Playing hide and seek I see its icy fingers A frost'd rosy cheek — Days fall ever shorter Autumn's air is chilling Warmth no longer lingers Wild things are stilling

The age of pumpkin spice is over — the time of the peppermint mocha has come.

Winter is the gray, bare shell of spring.

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

In Winter, Mother Nature dims the lights, sleeps late, hides from the world, and regenerates. Winter is the hangover of seasons.

One Swallow maketh not Summer; nor one Woodcock a Winter.

To shorten winter, borrow some money due in spring.

I love, till my heart is red as February and purple as March.

Aprill, June, and September, Thirty daies have as November; Ech month else doth never vary From thirty-one, save February; Wich twenty-eight doth still confine, Save on Leap-yeare, then twenty-nine.

"Thirty days hath September," Every person can remember; But to know when Easter comes Puzzles even scholars some. When March the twenty-first is past Just watch the silvery moon, And when you see it full and round, Know Easter'll be here soon. After the moon has reached its full, Then Easter will be here, On the very Sunday after, In each and every year. And if it hap on Sunday The moon should reach its height, The Sunday following this event Will be the Easter bright.

Follow the seasons. Follow your heart. Lead by example. Lead with love, alongside simplicity and courage, embracing duty, shunning fear.

Summer ends, and Autumn comes, and he who would have it otherwise would have high tide always and a full moon every night; and thus he would never know the rhythms that are at the heart of life.

No winter lasts forever; no spring skips its turn.