Quotes About Spring

Love should have no alternatives; love should be the sole reason for loving; love should spring of itself.

Love is in the air these days, so we thought we'd give a try to make your day a little brighter.

To love all ages yield surrender; But to the young it's raptures bring A blessing bountiful and tender- As storms refresh the fields of spring.

Only in Heaven will everything be as beautiful as spring, as pleasant as autumn, and as full of love as summer.

Skylark,Have you seen a valley green with springWhere my heart can go a-journeying,Over the shadows and the rainTo a blossom-covered lane?

Spring arrived overnight, as if winter, like some unwanted guest, had abruptly shrugged its way into its coat and vanished, without saying good-bye.

A primavera chegou durante a noite, como se o inverno fosse um hóspede indesejado que de repente resolveu vestir seu casaco e desaparecer sem se despedir. Tudo ficou mais verde, as ruas foram banhadas por um sol fraco, o ar agora perfumado. O dia tinha sinais florais e acolhedores, com trinados primaveris como fundo musical. Jojo Moyes - Como eu era antes de você

the first really warm day of May when the streets were full of abruptly exposed flesh and newly purchased sunglasses.

At springtime all is born-again.

Earthly love is a brief and penurious stream, which only flows in spring, with a long summer drought. The change from a burning desert, treeless, springless, drear, to green fields and blooming orchards in June, is slight in comparison with that from the desert of this world's affection to the garden of God, where there is perpetual, tropical luxuriance of blessed love.

Unfruitful emotion is to be suspected. Feeling acts as an impulse, as a spur, as a spring, and when feelings are excited, and they put nothing forward, they are sometimes even dangerous to a man.

Rain started to fall. She looked up and regarded the crack in the gray sky. It was spring, and the weather had—in typical Pacific Northwest fashion—forgotten the season.

Until spring training in 1946, the only time I pitched was in 1945 in the GI World Series.

When I did see the story of Persephone, I was really drawn to it. Persephone, the goddess of spring, was kept from Olympus by her mother, Demeter, because Demeter was very worried that the gods of Olympus would do something terrible to her.

If you can visualize the whole of spring and see Paradise with the eye of belief, you may understand the utter majesty of everlasting Beauty. If you respond to that Beauty with the beauty of belief and worship, you will be a most beautiful creature.

I like to go super blonde early in the spring because the sun's out and it helps keep that tone.

Grief lingers, and the ache of loss; those things don't change. But seeping into every leaf, a little guilty burns away each autumn, and falls, spinning down the river. Winter's long sleep begins, and with each spring the tree wales knowing mercifully less than it did the year before.

A matter of belief, the first day of spring, like Protestants and Catholics differing over the mother of God.

25. Flowering trees The blossom of the pear tree is the most prosaic, vulgar thing in the world. The less one sees this particular blossom the better...

It is only under the plane trees of Granada that la cachucha is danced by eternally young gypsies. Eternally young, like the roses are, because every spring there are new ones.

The ten thousand women in the Side Court were ten thousand flowers desperately dreaming of spring. Whether carefully planted out in pots or crudely sown in wasteland, they wilted in the harsh atmosphere of constant waiting, the deprivation of an endless winter.

The snow was too light to stay, the ground too warm to keep it. And the strange spring snow fell only in that golden moment of dawn, the turning of the page between night and day.

That swindler, he tricked my ma and got away with it too. But he didn't even slow her down. It's good to cry a bit,'cause that helps us get through the rough parts. And the winter is tough, there's no doubt. But we just hang on until spring when that ache will be all but swallowed up.

And then there is the spring park, damp as if freshly peeled, sweet greenhouse, green cemetery with no dead in it—except, in some shaded woods, under some years of leaves and rotted cones, the body of a warbler like a whole note fallen from the sky—my old love for him, like a songbird's rib cage picked clean.