Quotes About Spring

Era um dia de primavera desses que trazem esperança: cheio de brisas suaves e delicados aromas de terra aquecida.

I should have loved a thunderbird instead; At least when spring comes they roar back again. I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead. (I think I made you up inside my head.)

have so many merry little pots bubbling away in the fire of my enthusiasm: Myron, future trips, modern poetry, Yeats, Sitwell, T. S. Eliot, W. H. Auden, villanelles, maybe Mlle, maybe The New Yorker or The Atlantic (poems sent out make blind hope spring eternal—even if rejections are immanent), spring: biking, breathing, sunning, tanning. All so lovely and potential.

I should have loved a thunder bird instead; At least when spring comes they roar back again

Winter is for women — The woman, still at her knitting, At the cradle of Spanish walnut, Her body a bulb in the cold and too dumb to think. Will the hive survive, will the gladiolas Succeed in banking their fires To enter another year? What will they taste of, the Christmas roses? The bees are flying. They taste the spring. — Sylvia Plath, from "Wintering," Ariel . (Harper & Row 1966)

Now that the lilacs are in bloom She has a bowl of lilacs in her room

Yet with these April sunsets, that somehow recall My buried life, and Paris in the spring, I feel immeasurably at peace, and find the world To be wonderful and youthful afterall

April is the cruelest month.

Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing Memory and desire, stirring Dull roots with spring rain. Winter kept us warm, covering Earth in forgetful snow, feeding A little life with dried tubers.

These are the ones that suffer least: The aconite under the snow And the snowdrop crying for a moment in the wood.

A moment more and the cherubic pest had sprung out on her from a stand of mulberries.

The promise was a strong tie, hard, but I knew where I stood. If it's gone, I don't know where I am. When there's a strong scent in the spring twilight, I know least of all.

The naked earth is warm with Spring, And with green grass and bursting trees Leans to the sun's kiss glorying, And quivers in the sunny breeze.

One of our favorite spring rituals is to buy packs of white goose feathers at a craft store, climb our bird-watching tower, and stand, feathers in our outstretched fingers, until tree swallows gather the courage to hover close, snatch them, and bear them off to their nest.

We've had tufted titmice land on our hammock and pull our hair as we snooze on spring days, so eager are they to line their nests with the finest.

There is a time for deeper things to open your mind and inspire, with the promise of new life. A bricolage of of seasons and reasons when the sun is warm and the wind is chill. Before the reckless bloom of pure spring,

Eustace remembered a day like this one: spring on the cusp of summer, the earth unclenching its fist, thick green leaves, rich with fragrance, fattening the trees. A

In the trembling grey of a spring dawn, when the birds were whispering in mysterious cadence among the trees, have you not felt that they were talking to their mates about the flowers?

Most people would say it's the start of golf. When you see the flowers blooming at Augusta National and you hear Jim Nantz come on and start speaking about it, it's that time of year.

How precarious that safety was, he didn't realize. It was shattered, at last, by means of a trifling accident. Christmas had passed. By this time the sudden splendours of spring had waned. Now Meerlust lay like an island of heavier green in a tawny sea of veld that swept upward wave beyond wave to the arching sky. The rivers ran down to the sea in a gin-clear trickle. The scattered rocks of the wilderness radiated fierce heat.

Though the body is its genesis, a poem is the vision of a process Out of ceaseless motion in edgeless space Carved in space, vision your poor eye's single armor against winter spring summer fall

I have a number of such wells in mind. In county Longford, not far from the town of Granard, a spring bubbles in some rough ground a few yards from the roadside. Climb the old wire fence where it ties into a tree, walk in a north-westerly direction, and look out for some unexpected ferns and water fronds; the big green blades will catch your eye.

New ideas, fragile as spring flowers, easily bruised by the tread of the multitude, may yet be cherished by the solitary wanderer.

In golden April weather, In sun and wind and rain, Let us fare forth and follow Beneath the spring's first swallow By budding break and heather To the good brown soil again!