Quotes About Spring

The Dream Of Now" When you wake to the dream of now from night and its other dream, you carry day out of the dark like a flame. When spring comes north and flowers unfold from earth and its even sleep, you lift summer on with your breath lest it be lost ever so deep. Your life you live by the light you find and follow it on as well as you can, carrying through darkness wherever you go your one little fire that will start again.

Later she sat on the ground in the forest between school and home, and spring was so bright and beautiful, the warm air touched her so tenderly, she could almost feel herself changing into a flower. Her light dress felt like petals. "I love everything," she heard herself say. "So do I," a voice answered. Pearl straightened up and looked around. No one was there.

I had heard the old Indian legend about the red fern. How a little Indian boy and girl were lost in a blizzard and had frozen to death. In the spring, when they were found, a beautiful red fern had grown up between their two bodies. The story went on to say that only an angel could plant the seeds of a red fern, and that they never died; where one grew, that spot was sacred.

That God once loved a garden we learn in Holy writ. And seeing gardens in the Spring I well can credit it.

It's peaceful eating outside by myself, looking up at the night sky. The evenings are warmer now that spring is almost here, and the air feels soft. My hands and feet pressed against the mat are dull and numb, but everything else—the crepe myrtle, the bricks lining the flower beds

Clearly she had been forgiven, but they had also settled into the maddening familiarity of friendship; maddening for her at least, lying on the fresh spring grass, their hands almost touching as he told her about Lola, this incredible Spanish girl he'd met while skiing in the Pyrenees.

I was going to a spot where I knew the water still flowed directly from the earth. A long time ago, with an Indian guide who knew something of the territory, I was shown a spring which never dries, where the Caweng-na Village sat, between the paws of Bear Mountain. (All this may sound hokey, but it is, of course, true.)

In ancient times the solstice was the most important day of the year, the day when the sun reversed its pattern of descent in the southern sky and offered the first promise of spring, of rebirth, of life renewing after a time of death and darkness.

We are still nearer the winter edge of spring on this cool and misty May afternoon, the scent of wood smoke in the air — a remnant of the afternoon fire.

There are no ordinary feelings just as there are no ordinary spring days or kicked-over cans of paint. Are feelings ever succinct? The haiku is quick but its ripples to the horizon go.

I would have appreciated the satisfaction of a carnal paroxysm—in my experience, they bring a sparkle to the eye as well as brightness to the complexion and a spring to the step—but using Stoker to achieve that end was a means I could not begin to contemplate.

The afternoon was brilliant, soft spring sunshine gilding the ancient stone to warm honey, and somewhere, tantalising, just out of reach, the scent of jasmine rose above the odours of donkey and charcoal and leather.

For all the glories I have seen, the mountains and the seas and the horizon itself, stretching to the furthest reaches of the eye, there is nothing to touch an English morning in spring.

might be more fun to spring it on you in court if

May the flowers of spring bring beauty and joy to your world everyday.

It is always a joyful spring when your heart can dance and your soul can sing.

Anything may happen in this watering-place. Intrigues spring up under one's very feet like so much jungle vegetation.

A faithful woman looks to the spring, a good book, perfume, earthquakes, and divine revelation for the experience others find in a lover. They deceive their husbands, so to speak, with the entire world, men excepted.

[H]e ran, he stopped—he dipped his glowing face into the cloud of blossoming bushes, and would fain lose himself in the humming world between the leaves; he pressed the scratched face into the deep, cooling grass, and hung delirious on the breast of the immortal mother of Spring.

I don't know why I am in such a reminiscent mood except that spring and the reappearance of toads always awakens the old acquisitive instinct. The only thing that keeps me from starting a collection is the fact that no rule exists against it.

March winds blew benevolent, and nearing the day of shamrock observance, with all its anxiousness and pomp due to the Orange menace, the snowdrops bloomed, and shoots of tulip bulbs angled towards the sky. And rain. The Village Crier had cried correctly---the Farmer's Almanac too---early spring!

That was when he'd smiled, and after all that seriousness, his smile was a revelation, like a rainbow after a storm, like spring after winter, like dawn after the darkest night. She stopped, opened her notebook, and wrote that down. His smile was a revelation, like a rainbow after a storm, like spring after winter, like dawn after the darkest night. She read it out loud as she wrote.

In a world where thrushes sing and willow trees are golden in the spring, boredom should have been included among the seven deadly sins.

As this world becomes increasingly ugly, callous and materialistic it needs to be reminded that the old fairy stories are rooted in truth, that imagination is of value, that happy endings do, in fact, occur, and that the blue spring mist that make an ugly street look beautiful is just as real a thing as the street itself.