Quotes About Spring

I stand here on this spring day in the center of my life. Chaos, din, and beauty. For a moment, I am still.

The trees frothed with leaf and blossom. The ground softened to mud, then thickened with an embroidery of flowers. Birds whirled and swooped and sang, and colts and calves tottered or gamboled in farmyards. The back of winter finally broke, and warmth and color came rushing in. And hope. Always, hope.

Off Castle Garden, a mile to the southeast, near the western edge of Governors Island, a ship lay resting through a foggy spring night before the long and arduous trip back to the old world—whether Riga, Naples, or Constantinople is not certain.

Perhaps, all these years, the historiographers had been unwilling to recognize history as a spiral, perhaps because a spiral was so difficult to describe. Easier to photograph the spiral from the top, easier to flatten the spring into a coil.

Özgürlük kokusu bahar çiçekleri gibi güzeldi.

No season lasts forever because all of life is a cycle of planting, reaping, resting, and renewal. Winter is not infinite: even if you're having challenges today, you can never give up on the coming of spring. For some people, winter means hibernation; for others, it means bobsledding and downhill skiing! You can always just wait out the season, but why not make it into a time to remember?

MAGISTRATE Don't men grow old? LYSISTRATA Not like women. When a man comes home Though he's grey as grief he can always get a girl. There's no second spring for a woman. None. She can't recall it, nobody wants her, however She squanders her time on the promise of oracles, It's no use...

Don't forget, as you enjoy your mild spring days and peaceful summer evenings, how lucky you are to live in the temperate region of the Solar System, where the air never freezes and the rocks never melt... Earthlight by Arthur C. Clarke

this imminent danger seemed to take bodily shape, and I could almost fancy that I saw this most loathsome and dangerous of all the fiends crouching closely in his very shadow, like a half-cowed beast which slinks beside its keeper, ready at any unguarded moment to spring at his throat.

the false glorious promises of spring were everywhere, showing oddly through the village grime.

It's spring, you're young, you're lovely, you have a right to be happy. Come back into the world.

It was one of those spring mornings in March; the sky between the buildings was bright and blue and the city air, warmed by motors and a million breaths, had a freshness and a sense of excitement that can come only from a breeze starting somewhere in the country, far away, and moving into the city while everyone is asleep, to freshen the air for morning.

Dead my old fine hopes And dry my dreaming but still... Iris, blue each spring

But when he saw her — if he but thought of her, a sense came over him as of the first breath of the plough-lands in spring, when the snows are but now melted and gone. He knew it now — it might have befallen him too — he, too, could have loved.

The first slips of snow white unlined paper, six inches by four, and covered with William Minor's neat, elaborately cursive, and so distinctively American handwriting in greenish black ink, began to drift out from the Broadmoor post room in the spring of 1885.

Say, can the mind be noble, where the stream Of gratitude is withered from the spring?

Baseball begins in the spring, the season of new life. Football begins in the fall, when everything's dying.

Sweet May lies fresh before us, To life the young flowers leap, And through the Heaven's blue o'er us The rosy cloudlets sweep.

I pray that the life of this spring and summer may ever lie fair in my memory.

If life is nothing more than a journey to death, autumn makes sense but spring does not.

You can be an atheist three seasons out of the year, but not during spring. Spring makes it mandatory to believe in a Divine Creator.

For us, there is no spring. Just the wind that smells fresh before the storm.

Emotions are like a river flowing out of one's heart. Form is like the riverbanks. Without them the river runs shallow and dissipates on the plain. But banks make the river run deep. Why else have humans for centuries reached for poetry when we have deep affections to express? The creation of a form happens because someone feels a passion. How ironic, then, that we often fault form when the real evil is a dry spring.

But if you want to glorify the worth of a spring you do it by getting down on your hands and knees and drinking to your heart's satisfaction