Quotes on April

I tell young people: Do not think of yourself, think of others. Think of the future that awaits you, think about what you can do and do not fear anything.

April is the cruelest month, T.S. Eliot wrote, by which I think he meant (among other things) that springtime makes people crazy. We expect too much, the world burgeons with promises it can't keep, all passion is really a setup, and we're doomed to get our hearts broken yet again. I agree, and would further add: Who cares? Every spring I go out there anyway, around the bend, unconditionally. ... Come the end of the dark days, I am more than joyful. I'm nuts.

In April, we cannot see sunflowers in France, so we might say the sunflowers do not exist. But the local farmers have already planted thousands of seeds, and when they look at the bare hills, they may be able to see the sunflowers already. The sunflowers are there. They lack only the conditions of sun, heat, rain and July. Just because we cannot see them does not mean that they do not exist.

On Friday the 13th, April 2029, an asteroid large enough to fill the Rose Bowl as though it were an egg cup will fly so close to Earth that it will dip below the altitude of our communication satellites. We did not name this asteroid Bambi. Instead, we named it Apophis, after the Egyptian god of darkness and death.

I am no more lonely than a single mullein or dandelion in a pasture, or a bean leaf, or sorrel, or a horse-fly, or a bumblebee. I am no more lonely than the Mill Brook, or a weathercock, or the north star, or the south wind, or an April shower, or a January thaw, or the first spider in a new house.

January gray is here, like a sexton by her grave; February bears the bier, march with grief doth howl and rave, and April weeps -- but, O ye hours! Follow with May's fairest flowers.

Blackberry winter, the time when the hoarforst lies on the blackberry blossoms; without this frost the berries will not set. It is the forerunner of a rich harvest.

For surely as each November has its April, mysteries only are significant; and one mystery-of-mysteries creates them all: nothing false and possible is love (who's imagined,therefore limitless) love's to giving as to keeping's give; as yes is to if,love is to yes

And still the mad magnificent herald Spring assembles beauty from forgetfulness with the wild trump of April:witchery of sound and odour drives the wingless thing man forth in the bright air.

all by all and deep by deep and more by more they dream their sleep noone and anyone earth by april wish by spirit and if by yes

'Tis spring; come out to ramble_x000D_ _x000D_ The hilly brakes around,_x000D_ _x000D_ For under thorn and bramble_x000D_ _x000D_ About the hollow ground_x000D_ _x000D_ The primroses are found._x000D_ _x000D_ And there's the windflower chilly_x000D_ _x000D_ With all the winds at play,_x000D_ _x000D_ And there's the Lenten lily_x000D_ _x000D_ That has not long to stay_x000D_ _x000D_ And dies on Easter day.

There is no glory in star or blossom till looked upon by a loving eye; There is no fragrance in April breezes till breathed with joy as they wander by.

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

October knew, of course, that the action of turning a page, of ending a chapter or of shutting a book, did not end a tale. Having admitted that, he would also avow that happy endings were never difficult to find: "It is simply a matter," he explained to April, "of finding a sunny place in a garden, where the light is golden and the grass is soft; somewhere to rest, to stop reading, and to be content.

Unless a tree has borne blossoms in spring, you will vainly look for fruit on it in autumn.

Spring has returned. The Earth is like a child that knows poems.

Why should I deem myself to be a chisel, when I could be the artist?

Old April wanes, and her last dewy morn Her death-bed steeps in tears; to hail the May New blooming blossoms neath the sun are born, And all poor April's charms are swept away.

Indoors or out, no one relaxes _x000D_ In March, that month of wind and taxes, _x000D_ The wind will presently disappear, _x000D_ The taxes last us all the year.

Fair Flora! Now attend thy sportful feast, _x000D_ _x000D_ Of which some days I with design have past; _x000D_ _x000D_ A part in April and a part in May _x000D_ _x000D_ Thou claim'st, and both command my tuneful lay; _x000D_ _x000D_ And as the confines of two months are thine _x000D_ _x000D_ To sing of both the double task be mine.

The wind is tossing the lilacs,_x000D_ _x000D_ The new leaves laugh in the sun,_x000D_ _x000D_ And the petals fall on the orchard wall,_x000D_ _x000D_ But for me the spring is done._x000D_ _x000D_ Beneath the apple blossoms_x000D_ _x000D_ I go a wintry way,_x000D_ _x000D_ For love that smiled in April_x000D_ _x000D_ Is false to me in May.