Quotes About Spring

Dear common flower, that grow'st beside the way, Fringing the dusty road with harmless gold, First pledge of blithesome May, Which children pluck, and, full of pride uphold.

relent. She does not say so, but she has a soft spot for her nephew. I cannot blame her. There was a time when I loved him, too. No longer. I cannot bear to be in the same room with him. My son is now a year old and I have not seen him since last spring.

Her silhouette is obscenely green against the frost, as if she has left in her wake an artificial spring.

Remember what April was like when we were young, that sense of liquid rushing and the wind taking blue scoops out of the air and the birds beside themselves in the budding trees?

BLAM! BLOOEY! Twin thunderstorms struck Chesapeake Bay at about the same hour two weeks apart in the last spring and summer of the eighth decade of the twentieth century of the Christian era and bracketed our story like artillery zeroing in.

Wisteria and red-buds had followed, and then in mid-March the azaleas burst forth in gigantic pillows of white, red, and vermilion. White dogwood blossoms floated like clouds of confectioner's sugar above the azaleas. The scent of honeysuckle

Tommy sniffed the spring breeze like a supercilious stag.

It was still mild when they walked home from the party, and Irene looked up at the spring stars. How far that little candle throws its beams, she exclaimed. So shines a good dead in a naughty world.

Partiden eve döndüklerinde hava hâlâ yumuÅŸac?kt?, ?l?kt?, Irene gökteki bahar y?ld?zlar?na bakt?. Åžu küçük mum ta nereye yolluyor ???nlar?n?, diye hayk?rd?. Yararl? bir davran?? da böyle ???r iÅŸte yaramaz bir dünyada.

After valentines day guess what? Cuffing season is over! Everybody is going to be breaking up once it gets warm.

Behold, my friends, the spring is come; the earth has gladly received the embraces of the sun, and we shall soon see the results of their love!

St. Patrick's Day is an enchanted time, a day to begin transforming winter's dreams into summers magic.

coming to the end of spring / my grandmother kicks off her shoes / steps out of her faltering body.

Spring had been the season for dying in the old days. Invalids who had struggled through the dark comfort of winter took fright as the night receded.

April is the cruelest month, breeding lilacs out of the dead land, mixing memory and desire, stirring dull roots with spring rain.

Meanwhile spring arrived. My old dejection passed away and gave place to the unrest which spring brings with it, full of dreams and vague hopes and desires.

The faint pink coating the treetops promised rippling buds, a sure sign of spring hastening in, right on schedule, and the animal world getting ready for its fiesta of courting and mating, dueling and dancing, suckling and grubbing, costume-making and shedding-in short, the fuzzy, fizzy hoopla of life's ramshackle return.

Can there be a benediction of deer on a chilly spring morning? I think so. Their otherworldliness stops the day in its tracks, focuses it on the hypnotic beauty of nature, and then starts the day again with a rush of wonder. There is a way of sitting quietly and beholding nature which is a form of meditation and prayer, and like those healing acts it calms the spirit.

They'd be all right if it was midsummer," said Rose, when we tried them on. "But in April —— !" Still, we decided to wear them if the fine weather held. And when we woke up yesterday it was more like June than April. Oh, it was the most glorious morning! I suppose the best kind of spring morning is the best weather God has to offer. It certainly helps one to believe in Him.

I suppose the best kind of spring morning is the best weather God has to offer. It certainly helps one to believe in Him.

It was rainy, trees leafing out, spring deepening into summer; and the forlorn cry of horns on the street, the dank smell of the wet pavement had an electricity about it, a sense of crowds and static, lonely secretaries and fat guys with bags of carry-out, everywhere the ungainly sadness of creatures pushing and struggling to live.

Asparagus is in season.

And–since this willful amnesia had kept Robin's death from being translated into that sweet old family vernacular which smoothed even the bitterest mysteries into comfortable, comprehensible form–the memory of that day's events had a chaotic, fragmented quality, bright mirror-shards of nightmare which flared at the smell of wisteria, the creaking of a clothes-line, a certain stormy cast of spring light.

At her tone, at once intimate and formal, a terrible sadness came over me, and when we looked at each other it seemed that the whole past was redefined and brought into focus by this moment, clear as glass, a complexity of stillness that was rainy afternoons in spring, a dark chair in the hallway, the light-as-air touch of her hand on the back of my head.