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I question not if thrushes sing, If roses load the air; Beyond my heart I need not reach When all is summer there.
Sep 29, 2025
To see the Summer Sky Is Poetry, though never in a Book it lie— True Poems flee—
The summer night is like a perfection of thought.
Ah, summer, what power you have to make us suffer and like it.
In summer, the song sings itself.
Love is to the heart what the summer is to the farmer's year. It brings to harvest all the loveliest flowers of the soul.
Another secret of the universe: Sometimes pain was like a storm that came out of nowhere. The clearest summer could end in a downpour. Could end in lightning and thunder.
Oh, the summer night, Has a smile of light, And she sits on a sapphire throne.
The end-of-summer winds make people restless.
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.
A man says a lot of things in summer he doesn't mean in winter.
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.
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.
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.
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.
If a June night could talk, it would probably boast it invented romance.
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.
Summer bachelors, like summer breezes, are never as cool as they pretend to be.
This was one of those perfect New England days in late summer where the spirit of autumn takes a first stealing flight, like a spy, through the ripening country-side, and, with feigned sympathy for those who droop with August heat, puts her cool cloak of bracing air about leaf and flower and human shoulders.
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.
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.
A life without love is like a year without spring.
Summer afternoon, summer afternoon; to me those have always been the two most beautiful words in the English language.
Success is not final, failure is not fatal: it is the courage to continue that counts.
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