Quotes About Seasons

She was a bright disc in him that left him sun-spun. She was circular, light-turned, equinox-sprung. She was season and movement, but he had never seen her cold. In winter, her fire sank from the surface to below the surface, and warmed her great halls like the legend of the king who kept the sun in his hearth.

The streams, rejoiced that winter's work is done, Talk of to-morrow's cowslips as they run.

I've always been someone with a small circle of friends. Each stretch of my life has been defined by one person who was just my person. We became inseparable for a certain number of years, and that time was our season, just the two of us making our way through life.

For those of you who are fans of 'Agents of SHIELD,' that show has continued to grow creatively every season. I feel like last season, Season 4, was its strongest creatively yet. I'm very excited for what we have planned for Season 5.

I've learnt that seasons go very fast, so you've got to make the most of your opportunities.

There's a cabin in Oregon I go to, which belonged to my parents. It's never been winterized. It's not a place you want to be after the first of October or before the first of June. I go for about three weeks every summer.

There are a lot of seasons when Porto have been outstanding.

We have hot and cold running water where we live . . . Hot in the Summer and Cold in the Winter!

De bomen komen uit de grond en uit hun stam de twijgen. En iedereen vindt het heel gewoon dat zij weer bladeren krijgen. We zien ze vallen naar de grond en dan opnieuw weer groeien. Zo heeft de aarde ons geleerd dat al wat sterft zal bloeien.

El otoño no sólo trajo consigo la variación cromática de la naturaleza. Se diría que Dios -que no era mal paisajista- se complaciera, cada nueva estación, en pintar las mismas cosas con distintos colores. También trajo la melancolía: una mezcla de paz y vaga tristeza. Alicia se felicitó de haber encontrado la definición exacta de su estado de ánimo: una tristeza sosegada.

Every year, the bright Scandinavian summer nights fade without anyone's noticing. One evening in August you have an errand outdoors, and all of a sudden it's pitch-black. It is still summer, but the summer is no longer alive.

Grandmother walked up over the bare granite and thought about birds in general. It seemed to her no other creature had the same dramatic capacity to underline and perfect events -- the shifts in the seasons and the weather, the changes that run through people themselves. p.33

Every year, the bright Scandinavian summer nights fade away without anyone's noticing. One evening in August you have an errand outdoors, and all of a sudden it's pitch-black. A great warm, dark silence surrounds the house. It is still summer, but the summer is no longer alive. It has come to a standstill; nothing withers, and fall is not ready to begin. There are no stars yet, just darkness.

It is autumn in Moomin Valley, for how else can spring come back again?

Teraz chÅ'odna jesieÅ" wkroczy do Doliny Muminków. Bo inaczej jak?e mogÅ'aby znowu przyj?? wiosna?

It is still summer, but the summer is no longer alive. It has come to a standstill; nothing withers, and fall is not ready to begin. There are no stars yet, just darkness.

My father was often impatient during March, waiting for winter to end, the cold to ease, the sun to reappear. March was an unpredictable month, when it was never clear what might happen. Warm days raised hopes until ice and grey skies shut over the town again.

Aprils have never meant much to me, autumns seem that season of beginning, spring.

The true beloveds of this world are in their lover's eyes lilacs opening, ship lights, school bells, a landscape, remembered conversations, friends, a child's Sunday, lost voices, one's favorite suit, autumn and all seasons, memory, yes, it being the earth and water of existence, memory.

The sidewalk was completely empty. It was Sunday, early April. An icy wind teetered trash cans and turned my cheeks to marble. In Vietnam we had no weather like that. Here in Cleveland people call it spring.

I walk home, thinking of another place, of seemingly long endless summers and the shade of different kinds of trees; and then of winters when the branches of the trees were bare, so bare that, recalling them now, it seems inconceivable to me that I looked at them and did not think of the summer just gone, and the spring soon to come, as illusions; as dreams, never fulfilled, never to be fulfilled.' Philoctetes.

Why see death as a hangman when it is truer to see it as a harvester leveling the earth with its scythe? Oddly, we take hope from the seasons — the rebirth of spring after the death of winter — or from the rising and setting of the sun. But no spring, no dawn beyond death, has ever been proven. Death is an endless night so awful to contemplate that it can make us love life and value it with such passion that it may be the ultimate cause of all joy and all art.

When we feel weak, all we have to do is wait a little while. The spring returns and the winter snows melt and fill us with new energy.

You can't say to the spring: Come now and last as long as possible. You can only say: Come and bless me with your hope, and stay as long as you can.