Explore Quotes on Summer

This hill crossed with broken pines and maples lumpy with the burial mounds of uprooted hemlocks (hurricane of '38) out of their rotting hearts generations rise trying once more to become the forest just beyond them tall enough to be called trees in their youth like aspen a bouquet of young beech is gathered they still wear last summer's leaves the lightest brown almost translucent how their stubbornness has decorated the winter woods.

I can tell that you been crying all night, drinking all summer, praying for your happiness, hope that you recover

In winter I get up at night_x000D__x000D_And dress by yellow candle-light._x000D__x000D_In summer quite the other way,_x000D__x000D_I have to go to bed by day._x000D__x000D__x000D_I have to go to bed and see_x000D__x000D_The birds still hopping on the tree,_x000D__x000D_Or hear the grown-up people's feet_x000D__x000D_Still going past me in the street._x000D__x000D__x000D_And does it not seem hard to you,_x000D__x000D_When all the sky is clear and blue,_x000D__x000D_And I should like so much to play,_x000D__x000D_To have to go to bed by day?

Blessed be the Lord for the beauty of summer and spring, for the air, the water, the verdure, and the song of birds.

Now summer is in flower and natures hum _x000D__x000D_Is never silent round her sultry bloom _x000D__x000D_Insects as small as dust are never done _x000D__x000D_Wi' glittering dance and reeling in the sun _x000D__x000D_And green wood fly and blossom haunting bee _x000D__x000D_Are never weary of their melody _x000D__x000D_Round field hedge now flowers in full glory twine _x000D__x000D_Large bindweed bells wild hop and streakd woodbine _x000D__x000D_That lift athirst their slender throated flowers _x000D__x000D_Agape for dew falls and for honey showers _x000D__x000D_These round each bush in sweet disorder run _x000D__x000D_And spread their wild hues to the sultry sun.

It is the month of June,_x000D_The month of leaves and roses,_x000D_When pleasant sights salute the eyes,_x000D_And pleasant scents the noses.

If your purse no longer bulges_x000D__x000D_and you've lost your golden treasure,_x000D__x000D_If times you think you're lonely_x000D__x000D_and have hungry grown for pleasure,_x000D__x000D_Don't sit by your hearth and grumble,_x000D__x000D_don't let mind and spirit harden._x000D__x000D_If it's thrills of joy you wish for_x000D__x000D_get to work and plant a garden!_x000D__x000D__x000D_If it's drama that you sigh for,_x000D__x000D_plant a garden and you'll get it_x000D__x000D_You will know the thrill of battle_x000D__x000D_fighting foes that will beset it_x000D__x000D_If you long for entertainment and_x000D__x000D_for pageantry most glowing,_x000D__x000D_Plant a garden and this summer spend_x000D__x000D_your time with green things growing.

People don't notice whether it's winter or summer when they're happy.

It was a splendid summer morning and it seemed as if nothing could go wrong.

It's a Little Leaguers game that major leaguers play extraordinarily well, a game that excites us throughout adulthood. The crack of the bat and the scent of the horsehide on leather bring back our own memories that have been washed away with the sweat and tears of summers long gone...even as the setting sun pushes the shadows past home plate.

It breaks your heart. It is designed to break your heart. The game begins in spring, when everything else begins again, and it blossoms in the summer, filling the afternoons and evenings, and then as soon as the chill rains come, it stops and leaves you to face the fall alone.

I like spring, but it is too young. I like summer, but it is too proud. So I like best of all autumn, because its leaves are a little yellow, its tone mellower, its colours richer, and it is tinged a little with sorrow and a premonition of death. Its golden richness speaks not of the innocence of spring, nor of the power of summer, but of the mellowness and kindly wisdom of approaching age. It knows the limitations of life and is content.

Soon we will plunge ourselves into cold shadows, and all of summer's stunning afternoons will be gone. I already hear the dead thuds of logs below falling on the cobblestones and the lawn.

There is no season such delight can bring, as summer, autumn, winter and the spring.

Now Autumn's fire burns slowly along the woods, And day by day the dead leaves fall and melt, And night by night the monitory blast Wails in the key-hole, telling how it pass'd O'er empty fields, or upland solitudes, Or grim wide wave; and now the power is felt Of melancholy, tenderer in its moods Than any joy indulgent Summer dealt.

Summer makes me drowsy. Autumn makes me sing. Winter's pretty lousy, but I hate Spring.

One swallow does not make a summer, but one skein of geese, cleaving the murk of March thaw, is the Spring.

I didn't dream about being a director. I didn't know I wanted to do something with film until the summer between my sophomore and junior years at Morris College in Atlanta, Georgia.

Cricket to us was more than play, it was a worship in the summer sun.

From the moment of my birth, the angels of anxiety, worry, and death stood at my side, followed me out when I played, followed me in the sun of springtime and in the glories of summer. They stood at my side in the evening when I closed my eyes, and intimidated me with death, hell, and eternal damnation.

The dance grew into a colorful flower bouquet which caught and contained the glow of sun-happy summer days, the secret of star-studded nights, and the wistful sweetness of overcast and rainy hours.