Quotes About Summer

My favorite song of ours is 'Dance The Night Away.'

To be out here on the PGA Tour, especially during the summer, is a dream come true. I'm just trying to get to know a lot of the guys out here.

The best thing about summer entertaining is it doesn't have to be fancy - and you can eat outdoors. You can use a tablecloth or just a piece of fabric you love. You can't go wrong with white candles; put them in jars or hurricane vases.

American-style iced tea is the perfect drink for a hot, sunny day. It's never really caught on in the UK, probably because the last time we had a hot, sunny day was back in 1957.

Hershiser returned to Bowling Green for the summer session and played for an amateur baseball team. In his junior year, he finally made the school's traveling team and became a starting pitcher. Now he hoped the scouts in the stands would notice him.

Every year, the bright Scandinavian summer nights fade without anyone's noticing. One evening in August you have an errand outdoors, and all of a sudden it's pitch-black. It is still summer, but the summer is no longer alive.

Neither one of the two friends felt any great need of talking. As yet. They had time; summer lay before them, long and full of promises.

Every year, the bright Scandinavian summer nights fade away without anyone's noticing. One evening in August you have an errand outdoors, and all of a sudden it's pitch-black. A great warm, dark silence surrounds the house. It is still summer, but the summer is no longer alive. It has come to a standstill; nothing withers, and fall is not ready to begin. There are no stars yet, just darkness.

Minun täytyy saada Kampsu ymmärtämään, hän ajatteli. Minun täytyy saada joku ymmärtämään, että pelkään, joku joka voi vastata ja sanoa, että tietenkin pelkäät, käsitän sen erinomaisen hyvin. Tai vaikkapa: Mutta hyvä ystävä, mitä pelättävää sinulla on? Näin kauniina, tyynenä kesäpäivänä? Kummin tahansa, mutta jotenkin.

I grunnen hadde ingen av dem lyst til å snakke. Ennå. De hadde god tid, sommeren lå lang og full av løfter foran dem.

I love borders. August is the border between summer and autumn; it is the most beautiful month I know. Twilight is the border between day and night, and the shore is the border between sea and land. The border is longing: when both have fallen in love but still haven't said anything. The border is to be on the way. It is the way that is the most important thing.

VIOLET: August . . . your month. Locusts are raging. "Summer psalm become summer wrath." 'Course it's only August out there. In here . . . who knows? All right . . . okay. "The Carriage held but just Ourselves," dum-de-dum . . . mm, best I got . . . Emily Dickinson's all I got . . . something something, "Horse's Heads Were Toward Eternity . . .

There is an uncommonly harsh beauty to the Tibetan landscape. Its nakedness makes it seem incapable of deception, but under its calm deportment it conceals winds so brutal that yaks are known to die while their jaws are in masticating bliss. On hot summer days the sun licks up the rain within minutes. No puddles are formed; no moisture lingers in the air. It is only the droplets on tiny leaves of the baby turnip plant that betray rain.

They had reached the Summer Palace of the SeaWings, in the heart of the Kingdom of the Sea.

oppressively hot in a sweltering, we're-being-boiled-alive-in-our-

had reached the Summer Palace of the SeaWings, in the heart of the Kingdom of the Sea.

What pleasant days they were – an English summer at its best, and English countryside at its best, enough night-rain in the hills to keep the trout-streams fine and brisk, and there were reports of a hoopoe seen three times at Chiddingfold parsonage.

Why the wild rushing delight? Why the bullocks? Far be it from me to offer an explanation ("In general those who try to explain pictures are entirely wrong," said Picasso to Juan Larrea) but I will mention a circumstance that may have some bearing on their presence: in mountain country the cattle usually stay out on the high pastures for the summer, and when the right season comes they are brought down, often with rejoicing and sometimes with wreaths of flowers about their horns.

There have been times, what with this and that, when the whisper of words was not enough. On some shelf of memory lies a misplaced summer, one not stored away for later savoring. Surely it ended early, with unexpected fogs, with the wind sliding past through unmeasured darkness. No voice could be enough, what with this and that, and the hours falling faster.

I am very old, very cynical of the world, and I know it all. In short, I am seventeen years old, parking off a dark lane with a married man on an early summer night.

Some people say that, as summer approaches, we start to have weird ideas; we feel smaller because we spend more time out in the open air, and that makes us aware of how large the world is. The horizon seems farther away, beyond the clouds and the walls of our house.

She smiled over a heap of flowered summery lawn she had in her lap and threaded her needle again with pink silk.

Winter brings a colder palette with more heavy blue and violet, Fall has substantial more reddish and brown, Summer brings a variation of pastel colours and Spring fresh green and tangerine.

On a June day, a young woman in a summer dress steps off a Chicago-bound bus into a small midwestern town. She doesn't intend to stay. She is just passing through. Yet her stopping here has a reason and it is part of a story that you will never forget.