Cute Summer Quotes

What is one to say about June, the time of perfect young summer, the fulfillment of the promise of the earlier months, and with as yet no sign to remind one that its fresh young beauty will ever fade.

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, after all, is a time when wonderful things can happen to quiet people.

Summer will end soon enough, and childhood as well.

A man says a lot of things in summer he doesn't mean in winter.

It was June, and the world smelled of roses. The sunshine was like powdered gold over the grassy hillside.

Then followed that beautiful season... Summer.... Filled was the air with a dreamy and magical light; and the landscape Lay as if new created in all the freshness of childhood.

My old grandmother always used to say, Summer friends will melt away like summer snows, but winter friends are friends forever.

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

I know I am but summer to your heart, and not the full four seasons of the year.

And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees, just as things grow in fast movies, I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer.

it's a smile, it's a kiss, it's a sip of wine ... it's summertime!

That familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer.

What good is the warmth of summer, without the cold of winter to give it sweetness.

Rest is not idleness, and to lie sometimes on the grass under trees on a summer's day, listening to the murmur of the water, or watching the clouds float across the sky, is by no means a waste of time.

Green was the silence, wet was the light, the month of June trembled like a butterfly.

I almost wish we were butterflies and liv'd but three summer days - three such days with you I could fill with more delight than fifty common years could ever contain.

A perfect summer day is when the sun is shining, the breeze is blowing and mojito in your hand.

summer, after all, is a time when wonderful things can happen to quiet people. for those few months, you’re not required to be who everyone thinks you are, and that cut-grass smell in the air and the chance to dive into the deep end of a pool give you a courage you don’t have the rest of the year. you can be grateful and easy, with no eyes on you, and no past. summer just opens the door and lets you out.

Summer is the time when one sheds one's tensions with one's clothes, and the right kind of day is jeweled balm for the battered spirit. A few of those days and you can become drunk with the belief that all's right with the world.

Why is summer mist romantic and autumn mist just sad?

The first week of August hangs at the very top of summer, the top of the live-long year, like the highest seat of a Ferris wheel when it pauses in its turning. The weeks that come before are only a climb from balmy spring, and those that follow a drop to the chill of autumn, but the first week of August is motionless, and hot. It is curiously silent, too, with blank white dawns and glaring noons, and sunsets smeared with too much color.

The first week of August hangs at the very top of summer, the top of the live-long year, like the highest seat of a Ferris wheel when it pauses in its turning.

August rain: the best of the summer gone, and the new fall not yet born. The odd uneven time.

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

Spring passes and one remembers one's innocence. Summer passes and one remembers one's exuberance. Autumn passes and one remembers one's reverence. Winter passes and one remembers one's perseverance.

Spring passes and one remembers one's innocence.

If it could only be like this always - always summer, always alone, the fruit always ripe and Aloysius in a good temper.

No spring nor summer beauty hath such grace as I have seen in one autumnal face.

Summer afternoon, summer afternoon; to me those have always been the two most beautiful words in the English language.