Quotes About Summer

Sam and Bill and I would cut a hole in a watermelon and fill it with rum so Jimmy didn't know we were drinking. "Boy, you men sure like your watermelon," Jimmy would say.

It was one of those March days when the sun shines hot and the wind blows cold: when it is summer in the light, and winter in the shade.

Spring is the time of year when it is summer in the sun and winter in the shade.

This was my only and my constant comfort. When I think of it, the picture always rises in my mind, of a summer evening, the boys at play in the churchyard, and I sitting on my bed, reading as if for life.

Spring is the time of the year when it is summer in the sun and winter in the shade

There was nothing very cheerful in the climate or the town, and yet was there an air of cheerfulness abroad that the clearest summer air and brightest summer sun might have endeavoured to diffuse in vain.

The burst with which the carriage started out of the village and up the rise beyond, was soon checked by the steepness of the hill. Gradually, it subsided to a foot pace, swinging and lumbering upward among the many sweet scents of a summer night.

She is like the morning," he said. "With that golden hair, those blue eyes, and that fresh bloom on her cheek, she is like the summer morning. The birds here will mistake her for it. We will not call such a lovely young creature as that, who is a joy to all mankind, an orphan. She is the child of the universe.

And this reminds me of my own village church where, during sermon-time on bright Sundays when the birds are very musical indeed, farmers' boys patter out over the stone pavement, and the clerk steps out from his desk after them, and is distinctly heard in the summer repose to pursue and punch them in the churchyard, and is seen to return with a meditative countenance, making believe that nothing of the sort has happened.

Well! It was only their love for me, I know very well, and it is a long time ago. I must write it even if I rub it out again, because it gives me so much pleasure. They said there could be no east wind where Somebody was; they said that wherever Dame Durden went, there was sunshine and summer air.

Of winter's lifeless world each tree Now seems a perfect part; Yet each one holds summer's secret Deep down within its heart.

Ice cream is happiness on a cone, with sprinkles.

The glowing ruby should adorn Those who in Warm July are born...

O lady-bird, O lady-bird, With your red coat spotted black! And your flutterings of gauzy wings, Bringing the summer back! And a better hope to me Of a summer I shall see In this heart, with all your beauty stirr'd, O lady-bird, my lady-bird!

O lady-bird, O lady-bird, With the summer coming fresh! And the April hopes and buttercups, Knitting finely, in a mesh Of sunny-shining rays, For the samite-robèd days, For my heart with all your beauty stirr'd, O lady-bird, my lady-bird!

I hate mosquitoes. I mean, I know I'm delicious but dang!

I know a valley in the summer hills, Haunted by little winds and daffodils; Faint footfalls and soft shadows pass at noon; Noiseless, at night, the clouds assemble there; And ghostly summits hang below the moon— Dim visions lightly swung in silent air.

A misty October morning with temperatures in the forties. Into the soup pot with the last of the summer garden's bounty.

Winter surfaces in the poet by late summer, and spring is already in his inkpot with the first snow.

It was a messy, whipping, every-which-direction, cold drops in warm air, big-splattered summer rain.

There's no one season such delight can bring As summer, autumn, winter, and the spring.

winter sneaks up on me before summer ends in my heart the spring blossoms arrive when my mind is still snowed in

The pollen-dusted bees Search for the honey-lees That linger in the last flowers of September, While plaintive mourning doves Coo sadly to their loves Of the dead summer they so well remember.

The sultry summer past, September comes, Soft twilight of the slow-declining year; All mildness, soothing loveliness, and peace: The fading season ere the falling come...