Best 2164 quotes in «spring quotes» category

From uncoiled wings of the burning swan after sea of blood was born out of green caterpillar that skin sheared moon from cloud’s underbelly ordered waves to abolish horoscopes on crabs’ breasts . On the evergreen epiglotis of lotus full to the brim the pollen fiddling honey bee waved her double scarf searched for drunk village of pride red beating crowd humming songs sleeping side by side of worried distance ( From 'Selected Poems' 1961 - 2004

Gather in the summer, gather in the winter; and you will have everything you want in the spring.

Grandma said In the war they would grab a baby, a soldier at each ankle, and pull... Just like that. It's finally spring! Daffodils everywhere. Just like that.

Harsh winters precede pleasant springs.

Heart’s fragrance is spent with the ending of spring And nothing left but a tear-stained robe.

Gratitude is a harbinger of healing, the first robin of spring.

Green is the soul of Spring. Summer may be dappled with yellow, Autumn with orange and Winter with white but Spring is drenched with the colour green.

Had I known that you would be my first glimpse of spring, I would've kissed every fallen petal of my hope along the way.

He returned her love. He lusted after her sweet young body. He wanted her the way he wanted to breathe the spring air. He had never loved anyone before. He had not known even what this feeling for his tiny slave was. Now in the crisp, clear spring sunlight, he knew.

Here march the eaters of earth, the swallowers of rain.

His small but showy comb seemed to grow in courage with each move he took.

His very limbs feel different, as if they know that sometime soon there might be a little softness, a little love to spend like money, and the body's whole business won't be to keep itself alive on skinflint rations. Yes, she is a pleasant girl, intelligent. And under him, or inside him, spring is banging its little green drum.

Hm. New lives, being buried alive. Life already dead before it can even start. Such a shame!

Here I find the true nature of the tree - not in the bulk of its shape but in the way its form alters my vision of the world.

Her laughter sounded like April showers, like whispered secrets, like glass wind-chimes.

How mighty you are as death comes upon you and your color fades. Yet from life and lush to bold array, screaming into the night.

I am a mean hungry sorehead. Do I have the capacity for grace?? To arise one smoking spring & find one's youth has taken off for greener parts.

I am heartily glad that the trees and plants are still interested in copulatory activities; I only wish they would be so good as to keep their sperm away from my face. Do not pretend that pollen is anything else; it transfers haploid male genetic material and sullies the bedclothes unmercifully.

He smelled cold water and cold intrepid green. Those early flowers smelled like cold water. Their fragrence was not the still perfume of high summer; it was the smell of cold, raw green.

I am happy the leaves are growing large so quickly. Soon they will hide the neighbor and her screaming child.

If Spring came but once in a century, instead of once a year, or burst forth with the sound of an earthquake, and not in silence, what wonder and expectation there would be in all hearts to behold the miraculous change! But now the silent succession suggests nothing but necessity. To most men only the cessation of the miracle would be miraculous and the perpetual exercise of God’s power seems less wonderful than its withdrawal would be.

I'd love to wake up to complete silence, white sheets, and the smell of crisp air and roses.

If a tiny bud dares unfold to a wakening new world, if a narrow blade of grass dares to poke its head up from an unlit earth, then surely I can rise and stretch my winter weary bones, surely I can set my face to the spring sun. Surely, I too can be reborn.

If I knew I was going to die tomorrow, And Spring came the day after tomorrow, I would die peacefully, because it came the day after tomorrow. If that’s its time, when else should it come? I like it that everything is real and everything is right; And I like that it would be like this even if I didn’t like it. And so, if I die now, I die peacefully Because everything is real and everything is right.

If Springtime crawls out of the wild mouths of flowers, then surely, Winter crawls out of mine.

If you can smile like a flower in the deep darkness of winter, spring is always there.

I generally rested during the day and travelled only when I was secured by night from the view of man. One morning, however, finding that my path lay through a deep wood, I ventured to continue my journey after the sun had risen; the day, which was one of the first of spring, cheered even me by the loveliness of its sunshine and the balminess of the air. I felt emotions of gentleness and pleasure, that had long appeared dead, revive within me. Half surprised by the novelty of these sensations, I allowed myself to be borne away by them, and forgetting my solitude and deformity, dared to be happy. Soft tears again bedewed my cheeks, and I even raised my humid eyes with thankfulness towards the blessed sun, which bestowed such joy upon me.

I know she absolutely delights in the improvement of the weather, in the turning of the year.

I know I’m not the only one whose life is a conditional clause hanging from something to do with spring and one tall room and the tremble of my phone. I’m not the only one that love makes feel like a dozen flapping bedsheets being ripped to prayer flags by the wind.

I kill the living to make way for the dead. But we had hot chocolate, she and I. We tried to make our friendship last as long as we could. Then I was forced to let her go. I held her when she returned to the earth.

Honest Winter, snow-clad, and with the frosted beard, I can welcome not uncordially; But that long deferment of the calendar's promise, that weeping gloom of March and April, that bitter blast outraging the honour of May how often has it robbed me of heart and hope?

I likened her to the slender PSYCHÉ and judged that the perfection of her face ennobled everything unclean around her: The dusty hems of her bunched-up skirt, the worn straps of her nightshirt; the blackened soles of her bare feet [...] All this and the pungent air! Ô this night, sweet pungent night! "HÉBÉ" may come but a season. But this girl's season would know a hot spring and an Indian summer.

In a world lost in delusion, a single daffodil quietly announces the arrival of spring.

I love the arrival of a new season — each one bringing with it its own emotion: spring is full of hope; summer is freedom; autumn is a colourful release, and winter brings an enchanting peace. It's hard to pick which one I enjoy the most — each time the new one arrives, I remember its beauty and forget the previous one whose qualities have started to dim.

I love the smell of rain and growing things.

I need you like a blossom needs rain, like the winter ground needs spring-to soothe my parched soul.

In our part of the country, spring passes quickly. If you haven't been out for five days, you find the trees in bud. If you don't see the trees for another five days, you discover that they've put out leaves. In another five days, they're so green you wouldn't recognize them. It makes you wonder: Can these be the same trees I saw a few days before? And you answer yourself: Of course they are. That's how fast spring goes by. You can almost see it. From far away it comes racing toward you. And when it reaches you it whispers in your ear, 'I'm here,' and then runs swiftly on. Spring - what a rush it's in. Every place seems to be urging it to come. If it delays its arrival a bit, the sunlight fades and the earth turns to stone. Trees especially can't endure any delay. Let spring dally even briefly on the way, and many lives are lost. ("Spring In A Small Town")

In spring, the dead trees, roots, and animals come to life again exactly as they were, thus providing hundreds of thousands of examples, specimens, and proofs of the supreme resurrection.

In the first week of April the weather turned suddenly, unseasonably, insistently lovely. The sky was blue, the air warm and windless, and the sun beamed on the muddy ground with all the sweet impatience of June. Toward the fringe of the wood, the young trees were yellow with the first tinge of new leaves; woodpeckers laughed and drummed in the copses and, lying in bed with my window open, I could hear the rush and gurgle of the melted snow running in the gutters all night long. In the second week of April everyone waited anxiously to see if the weather would hold. It did, with serene assurance. Hyacinth and daffodil bloomed in the flower beds, violet and periwinkle in the meadows; damp, bedraggled white butterflies fluttered drunkenly in the hedgerows. I put away my winter coat and overshoes and walked around, nearly light-headed with joy, in my shirtsleeves.

In the soul of a lover, it is always spring where flowers of ecstasy are always blooming. Music of love is always playing.

Is it difficult to recognize spring when the air is dancing with joy and the flowers are blooming bright colorful smiles?

In a black and white world, Chase and I would never end up together—our mothers had ensured that—but in that small bathroom, under the harsh fluorescent lights, we dragged each other deeper into the gray—the messy, guilt-ridden space that sat between right and wrong.

It does last," Horace said. "Spring does. You'd almost think there was some purpose to it.

I thought for our last session we should celebrate spring," Lillian said, coming out of the kitchen with a large blue bowl in her hands. "The first green things coming up through soft earth. I've always thought the year begins in the spring rather than January, anyway. I like the idea of taking the first asparagus of the year, picked right that day, and putting it in a warm, creamy risotto. It celebrates both seasons and takes you from one to the next in just a few bites." They passed the bowl around the table, using the large silver spoon to serve generous helpings. The salad bowl came next, fresh Bibb lettuce and purple onions and orange slices, touched with oil and lemon and orange juice. Then a bread basket, heaped high with slices of fragrant, warm bread.

It had been in a Paris house, with many people around, and my dear friend Jules Darboux, wishing to do me a refined aesthetic favor, had touched my sleeve and said, "I want you to meet-" and led me to Nina, who sat in the corner of a couch, her body folded Z-wise, with an ashtray at her heel, and she took a long turquoise cigarette holder from her lips and joyfully, slowly exclaimed, "Well, of all people-" and then all evening my heart felt like breaking, as I passed from group to group with a sticky glass in my fist, now and then looking at her from a distance (she did not look...), and listening to scraps of conversation, and overheard one man saying to another, "Funny, how they all smell alike, burnt leaf through whatever perfume they use, those angular dark-haired girls," and as it often happens, a trivial remark related to some unknown topic coiled and clung to one's own intimate recollection, a parasite of its sadness.

It is spring, let us dance and dream with flowers. Let us sing and enjoy the trees.

It is so small a thing to have enjoyed the sun, to have lived light in the spring, to have loved, to have thought, to have done.

In your winter you deny your spring,

It is always a joyful spring when your heart can dance and your soul can sing.

It is one of the oddest and sometimes one of the most charming characteristics of English weather that at times one season borrows complete days from another, spring from summer, winter from spring. And it may be that these milky days of winter, which seem borrowed from April, are automatically filled with the sadness of things out of their time.