Quotes on Summer

Summer was here again. Summer, summer, summer. I loved and hated summers. Summers had a logic all their own and they always brought something out in me. Summer was supposed to be about freedom and youth and no school and possibilities and adventure and exploration. Summer was a book of hope. That's why I loved and hated summers. Because they made me want to believe.

Summer cooking implies a sense of immediacy, a capacity to capture the essence of the fleeting moment.

These are the forgeries of jealousy; And never, since the middle summer's spring, Met we on hill, in dale, forest, or mead, By paved fountain or by rushy brook, Or in the beached margent of the sea, To dance our ringlets to the whistling wind, But with thy brawls thou hast disturbed our sport.

....that the mounds of ices, and the bowls of mint-julep and sherry cobbler they make in these latitudes, are refreshments never to be thought of afterwards, in summer, by those who would preserve contented minds.

Where'er you walk cool gales shall fan the glade, Trees where you sit shall crowd into a shade. Where'er you tread the blushing flowers shall rise, And all things flourish where you turn your eyes.

Departing summer hath assumed_x000D_ _x000D_ An aspect tenderly illumed,_x000D_ _x000D_ The gentlest look of spring;_x000D_ _x000D_ That calls from yonder leafy shade_x000D_ _x000D_ Unfaded, yet prepared to fade,_x000D_ _x000D_ A timely carolling.

The streets lie, the sidewalks lie, everything lies_x000D_ _x000D_ You can try and read it but you're gonna get it wrong...all wrong _x000D_ _x000D_ The summer evenings burn and melt and the nights glitter but you're gonna get it wrong _x000D_ _x000D_ And it's gonna sink its teeth into your flesh and pull you to the bottom.

What wondrous life is this I lead!_x000D_ _x000D_ Ripe apples drop about my head;_x000D_ _x000D_ The luscious clusters of the vine_x000D_ _x000D_ Upon my mouth do crush their wine;_x000D_ _x000D_ The nectarine and curious peach_x000D_ _x000D_ Into my hands themselves do reach;_x000D_ _x000D_ Stumbling on melons, as I pass,_x000D_ _x000D_ Ensnared with flowers, I fall on grass.

Loud is the summer's busy song_x000D_ _x000D_ The smallest breeze can find a tongue,_x000D_ _x000D_ While insects of each tiny size_x000D_ _x000D_ Grow teasing with their melodies,_x000D_ _x000D_ Till noon burns with its blistering breath_x000D_ _x000D_ Around, and day lies still as death.

Here is the ghost _x000D_ _x000D_ Of a summer that lived for us, _x000D_ _x000D_ Ere is a promise _x000D_ _x000D_ Of summer to be.

And let them pass, as they will too soon, _x000D_ _x000D_ With the bean-flowers' boon, _x000D_ _x000D_ And the blackbird's tune, _x000D_ _x000D_ And May, and June!

I pray that the life of this spring and summer may ever lie fair in my memory.

In these divine pleasures permitted to me of walks in the June night under moon and stars, I can put my life as a fact before me and stand aloof from its honor and shame.

The linden, in the fervors of July,_x000D_ _x000D_ Hums with a louder concert. When the wind_x000D_ _x000D_ Sweeps the broad forest in its summer prime,_x000D_ _x000D_ As when some master-hand exulting sweeps_x000D_ _x000D_ The keys of some great organ, ye give forth_x000D_ _x000D_ The music of the woodland depths, a hymn_x000D_ _x000D_ Of gladness and of thanks.

O Earth, that hast no voice, confide to me a voice!_x000D_ _x000D_ O harvest of my lands! O boundless summer growths!_x000D_ _x000D_ O lavish, brown, parturient earth! O infinite, teeming womb!_x000D_ _x000D_ A verse to seek, to see, to narrate thee.

The trees that have it in their pent-up buds _x000D_ _x000D_ To darken nature and be summer woods.

Summer has set in with its usual severity.

One must maintain a little bittle of summer, even in the middle of winter.

The Indian Summer of life should be a little sunny and a little sad, like the season, and infinite in wealth and depth of tone, but never hustled.

Spring has many American faces. There are cities where it will come and go in a day and counties where it hangs around and never quite gets there. Summer is drawn blinds in Louisiana, long winds in Wyoming, shade of elms and maples in New England.

Antisthenes says that in a certain faraway land the cold is so intense that words freeze as soon as they are uttered, and after some time then thaw and become audible, so that words spoken in winter go unheard until the next summer.