Quotes About Seasons

Summer ends, and Autumn comes, and he who would have it otherwise would have high tide always and a full moon every night.

Love needs new leaves every summer of life, as much as your elm-tree, and new branches to grow broader and wider, and new flowers to cover the ground.

There was something frantic in their blooming, as if they knew that frost was near and then the bitter cold. They'd lived through all the heat and noise and stench of summertime, and now each widely opened flower was like a triumphant cry, "We will, we will make seed before we die.

Your love is like the trees gently blowing through my mind. You heart is streamed with leaves delicate as the seasons. Your soul is as the memory of all that heaven divulges.

She was always threatening to move to be nearer to Rosie and the boys, but Wisconsin was- obviously, nonnegotiably, self-evidently-too cold. So she stayed in Pheonix and held the weather to her heart as a talisman, clutched to her breast against all counteroffers. But she came up for the summers. Pheonix's weather need not be clutched to the breast for June through September.

I want to go south, where there is no autumn, where the cold doesn't crouch over one like a snow leopard waiting to pounce.

Time has two aspects. There is the arrow, the running river, without which there is no change, no progress, or direction, or creation. And there is the circle or the cycle, without which there is chaos, meaningless succession of instants, a world without clocks or seasons or promises.

These are the seasons of emotion, and like the winds, they rise and fall.

These are the seasons of emotion And like the wind, they rise and fall This is the wonder of devotion I see the torch We all must hold This is the mystery of the quotient, quotient Upon us all, upon us all a little rain must fall

For Beatrice, summer without you is as cold as winter. Winter without you, is even colder.

Summer seems so cold without you, winter is even colder.

Summer rain is cleaner than winter rain. Winter rain strikes hard upon the granite, but summer rain is sibilant soft upon the leaves.

In the midst of winter, I find within me the invisible summer...

He realized that it wouldn't be much longer before the trees picked themselves up and migrated to the warmer south, leaving their dead, leafless brothers behind.

The summer has ended. The garden withers. The mornings become chill. I am thirty, I am thirty-four–the years turn dry as leaves.

Time has become a melding of minutes and months and the feeling of seasons. […] Leon says it is the Bhutan Time Warp and I know what he means. Time does not hurl itself forward at breakneck speed here. Change happens very slowly. A grandmother and her granddaughter wear the same kind of clothes, they do the same work, they know the same songs. The granddaughter does not find her grandmother an embarrassing, boring relic.

The magical dromenon, the Carrying out of Winter, the Bringing in of Spring, is doomed to an inherent and deadly monotony.

The plant succession that had begun in March with snowdrops and early crocuses would soon flicker out in a blaze of orange chrysanthemums and show its last pinpoints of color in bittersweet and ash berries hanging like embers in the general misty brown of the world.

Twenty-five, he was. Twenty-five tomorrow. Some years the snow had melted for his birthday, but not this year, and so it had been a long winter full of cows.

Every season is hard, every season has its ups and downs.

Life's about ups and downs, season's about ups and downs.

It will not always be summer: build barns.

you should first follow the plow if you want to dance the harvest jig.

I long for the bulbs to arrive, for the early autumn chores are melancholy, but the planting of bulbs is the work of hope and is always thrilling.