Quotes About Summer

The little birds sang as if it were The one day of summer in all the year.

You boys have lived too south a life," he said. "Your blood gets thin, when you're living south. This ain't cold. If we're still in these parts in a month or two you'll see some weather that makes this seem like summer.

Compose a haiku in honor of a person you admire. You are spiky spring, humming summer, wings that beat back ghosts of winter.

We're not afraid of the dark. Our nightmares were born on sultry, summer afternoons.

They can't find the heart," he said, voice as unemotional as his face. The light was strong enough that I could see that his eyes were blue rather than just pale. He had a summer tan, light gold, but better than I tanned. It seemed wrong that the blond, blue-eyed WASP tanned darker than I did with my mother's black hair and brown eyes. I was half Hispanic—shouldn't I tan darker than white-bread boy?

I'm not an etiquette expert, but I can't help feeling that knocking our hostess's daughter over a stone balcony might not be considered the most appropriate way to celebrate the first full day of our summer course.

I had a really good time tonight. Tons of boys hanging off me. And I could see it was really messing with her head--she kept giving me these dirty looks. So I'm going to get as many boys as I can running after me this summer. Just to make Elisa really…" She pauses. "What would Kelly say? Narked. " Now her smile's real. "I want to make Elisa narked. " I smile back: the English word sounds really cool in her American accent.

We carried cut hay from the heart of the rick, packed tight as tobacco flake, with grass and wild flowers juicily fossilized within – a whole summer embalmed in our arms.

I could hear the cicadas like a vortex of hundreds of tiny violins. I'd always hated them, too. Anytime cicadas showed up, bad juju lurked nearby.

not Small Town turns out to be what New Yorkers want to read, it is very definitely the book this New Yorker needed to write. It is, I came to realize, a post-apocalyptic novel set in New York in the summer of 2002. We've had our apocalypse, and we're New Yorkers, and we're moving on.

The slither of tyres across the waves of the desert under a sky blue and frost-bound in winter; or in summer a fearful lunar bombardment which turned the sea to phosphorus — bodies shining like tin, crushed in electric bubbles; or walking to the last spit of sand near Montaza, sneaking through the dense green darkness of the King's gardens, past the drowsy sentry, to where the force of the sea was suddenly crippled and the waves hobbled over the sand-bar. Or

It's the end of the summer. It's the end of it all. Those days are gone, it's over now, we're moving on.

Her smile is like summer moonlight-beautiful and magical, with a fire that could melt the night.

Oh, the summer night, Has a smile of light, And she sits on a sapphire throne.

The house had been torn down. Nothing is left but the old white fence. There used to be privet bushes everywhere. The smell of privet is the smell of summer for me, I say to Catherine. Yes, Mom. she says, I know, Your memories are my memories now.

In summer the empire of insects spreads.

Camus said, "In the depths of winter, I finally learned that within me there lay an invincible summer.

I know the stars by heart, the armies of the night, and there in the lead the ones that bring us snow or the crops of summer, bring us all we have-- our great blazing kings of the sky, I know them, when they rise and when the fall . . .

I know the stars by heart, the armies of the night, and there in the lead the ones that bring us snow or the crops of summer, bring us all we have-- our great blazing kings of the sky, I know them, when they rise and when they fall . . .

Proust's is a long book, though, water- skiing permitting, you could get through it in the summer recess

Summer in Honolulu brings the sweet smell of mangoes, guava, and passionfruit, ripe for picking; it arbors the streets with the fiery red umbrellas of poincianta trees and decorates the sidewalks with the pink and white puffs of blossoming monkeypods. Cooling trade winds prevail all summer, bringing what the old Hawaiians called makani 'olu' 'olu--- fair wind.

It's raining in Washington tonight. Plump, warm summer rain that covers the sidewalks with leopard spots. Downtown, elderly ladies carry their houseplants out to set them on the fire-escapes, as if they were infirm relatives or Boy Kings. I like that.

Summer for prose and lemons, for nakedness and languor, for the eternal idleness of the imagined return, for rare flutes and bare feet, and the August bedroom of tangled sheets.

Reading is the solitary essential pastime to which all summer houses are peculiarly dedicated. I became a foreigner. For myself, that is what a writer is - a man living on the other side of a frontier.