Quotes About Transition

Of autumn months September is the prime, Now day and night are equal in each clime, The twelfth of this Sol rises in the Line, And doth in poising Libra this month shine...

Spring scarce had greener fields to show than these Of mid-September...

Soft-eyed September...

September is more than a month, really; it is a season, an achievement in itself. It begins with August's leftovers and it ends with October's preparations...

Lush juices of ripe fruits, splashed color flung From Frost's first palette, purple, gold, and red; The last sweet song the meadow lark has sung,— Dirge of the summer dead.

September comes, and... Summer thins away.

September... dearest month of all to pensive minds!

If riding in an airplane is flying, then riding in a boat is swimming. If you want to experience the element, then get out of the vehicle.

Finish each day before you begin the next, and interpose a solid wall of sleep between two.

each transition will involve some kind of loss. Growth will always be costly; a new venture will always involve some form of letting go. It may be a matter of separation—from parents or from those who are part of an old way or an old world. It may involve leaving behind the comfortable and the secure. Each transition will be a small death, and the new life, the new opportunity and the new challenge will only come as we let go.

Part of the reason why we feel these transitions so keenly is that we know that our lives matter.

I'm not sentimental about anything. Life flows by, and you flow with it or you don't. Move on and move out.

Ouderdom). Tussen klok en bed.

If you dont like life, move! Your not a tree!

What would you like, black or green?" "Green, please. It has an earthier taste." "What is you name?" "Leila. It means 'evening,' but I would rather have a morning name. I was at the other party, but I like your party better." "I see. Cup or mug?" "Cup, please. The best china. Gold-rimmed, no flowers. No cracks or chips. It's okay. I don't break things.

Walls shift as the day's warmth rushes out and coolness from the garden flows in to take its place. Couches exhale. In the attic, objects made of suede and velvet stir. Forgotten horsehair mattresses sigh and wonder. Something flutters.

Since World War II, we have known that the old man—the consuming man, the purely technological man, the wholly materialistic man—must die. Our problem has been that no one better has come forward to take his place.

The Year of the Rat

Indian summer is like a woman.

I have crossed an ocean I have lost my tongue from the root of the old one a new one has sprung

That heartbreaking moment when you finish an amazing book, and you are forced to return to reality.

This is happening.

Then I got out of the bubble.

Entrava dia e saía dia. As noites cobriam a terra de chofre. A tampa anilada baixava, escurecia, quebrada apenas pelas vermelhidões do poente.