Best 2164 quotes in «spring quotes» category

Because the birdsong might be pretty, But it's not for you they sing, And if you think my winter is too cold, You don't deserve my spring.

Because this tea kaiseki would be served so soon after breakfast, it would be considerably smaller than a traditional one. As a result, Stephen had decided to serve each mini tea kaiseki in a round stacking bento box, which looked like two miso soup bowls whose rims had been glued together. After lifting off the top dome-shaped cover the women would behold a little round tray sporting a tangle of raw squid strips and blanched scallions bound in a tahini-miso sauce pepped up with mustard. Underneath this seafood "salad" they would find a slightly deeper "tray" packed with pearly white rice garnished with a pink salted cherry blossom. Finally, under the rice would be their soup bowl containing the wanmori, the apex of the tea kaiseki. Inside the dashi base we had placed a large ball of fu (wheat gluten) shaped and colored to resemble a peach. Spongy and soft, it had a savory center of ground duck and sweet lily bulb. A cluster of fresh spinach leaves, to symbolize the budding of spring, accented the "peach," along with a shiitake mushroom cap simmered in mirin, sake, and soy. When the women had finished their meals, we served them tiny pink azuki bean paste sweets. David whipped them a bowl of thick green tea. For the dry sweets eaten before his thin tea, we served them flower-shaped refined sugar candies tinted pink. After all the women had left, Stephen, his helper, Mark, and I sat down to enjoy our own "Girl's Day" meal. And even though I was sitting in the corner of Stephen's dish-strewn kitchen in my T-shirt and rumpled khakis, that soft peach dumpling really did taste feminine and delicate.

Before the spring arrives there are such days: Under the thick snow cover rests the lawn, The dry-and-jolly trees are making noise, Tender and strong, the wind is warm. And body is amazed at its own lightness, And your own home is alien to you, And song that had just previously been tiring With worry you are singing just like new.

In Our Woods, Sometimes a Rare Music Every spring I hear the thrush singing in the glowing woods he is only passing through. His voice is deep, then he lifts it until it seems to fall from the sky. I am thrilled. I am grateful. Then, by the end of morning, he's gone, nothing but silence out of the tree where he rested for a night. And this I find acceptable. Not enough is a poor life. But too much is, well, too much. Imagine Verdi or Mahler every day, all day. It would exhaust anyone.

Blessed be, it's finally Spring. In joy and delight the birds sing, Ravished upon the entire earth, The new rebirth, Helas, the joy it brings!

Blonde moon White gown Red ribbon Angle eyes jasmine wish in thy heart Missing spring One day night slowly covering A whole life

Boxes are being opened and vans idle with loads of fish and crab, early spring berries, bunches of sweet lemony sorrel, chocolates, cheeses, oils and vinegars in thin green bottles, flowers with sweet-smelling heads the colors of confectionary.

Brilliant boom of Spring is nothing if not for the timely death of Autumn~

Spring and Autumn Every season hath its pleasures; Spring may boast her flowery prime, Yet the vineyard's ruby treasures Brighten Autumn's sob'rer time.

Buds in the snow —the deadly fight between two birds

But enough of the drama. Winter has turned to spring. And I am feeling good.

By March, the worst of the winter would be over. The snow would thaw, the rivers begin to run and the world would wake into itself again. Not that year. Winter hung in there, like an invalid refusing to die. Day after grey day the ice stayed hard; the world remained unfriendly and cold.

But even in the wealth of spring, he remembered the harshness of this country. It is a cunning place, he thought, a place of dangers, after all.

But within the winter, a spring is promised and prepared for

But there were certain early days in Casterbridge- days of firmamental exhaustion which followed angry south-westerly tempests-when, if the sun shone, the air was like velvet.

Change like a tree When it is winter Don’t complain or fear Just wait for the spring To bloom and sing

Count your summers, not your winters.

Chi abita nel cielo e quanto paga d' affitto? Ecco le lune di Giove sopra i fili del telefono, il viale sarà tutto magnolie e i giardinieri avranno un gran lavoro.

Despite the heart numbing frost, my soul is blooming like spring.

Don't forget to enjoy the winter, but never give up hopes for the spring.

Did I live the spring I’d sought? It’s true in joy, I walked along, took part in dance, and sang the song. and never tried to bind an hour to my borrowed garden bower; nor did I once entreat a day to slumber at my feet. Yet days aren’t lulled by lyric song, like morning birds they pass along, o’er crests of trees, to none belong; o’er crests of trees of drying dew, their larking flight, my hands, eschew Thus I’ll say it once and true… From all that I saw, and everywhere I wandered, I learned that time cannot be spent, It only can be squandered.

Dip your fingers n the spring stream or lift your face to the summer rains. Listen for me in the winter wind I'll come back for you.

Don’t even try to count all the colors of spring. God’s pallet keeps generating new hues.

Es strahlt die Sonne, Es lacht mein Herz, Die Memoiren voll Wonne, Man mag meinen es sei März.

Early in March the crocuses crept alight, then blazed yellow and purple in the park. In fact it is about five o'clock in the evening that the first hour of spring strikes - autumn arrives in the early morning, but spring at the close of a winter day. The air, about to darken, quickens and is run through with mysterious white light; the curtain of darkness is suspended, as though for some unprecedented event. There is perhaps no sunset, the trees are not yet budding - but the senses receive an intimation, an intimation so fine, yet striking in so directly, that this appears a movement in one's own spirit. This exalts whatever feeling is in the heart.

El verano es una estación triste en la que nada crece. Quién no prefiere el mes de diciembre pese a la amargura que provoca la felicidad ajena; incluso la establecida crueldad de abril es mil veces más estimulante. La canción del verano es siempre la peor canción del año. El amor de verano es un subgénero del amor, del gran amor que nunca podrá tener lugar en verano. Hablan de lecturas de verano, noches de verano, viajes de verano, bebidas de verano y con ello queda implícito un sutil desprecio.

Ephemerals: That's what Hub called them; flowers that bloomed and died in a matter of weeks, before the trees leafed out and shaded them. She liked the way the word sounded in her head. I am an ephemeral. It made her feel like something passing and precious.

Every flower begins to flourish in spring

Ever notice how baby shampoo smells like spring?

Every flora blossoms in spring.

Every little or big problem has a reason, Every year there is a winter season, Every trouble goes away with time, After winter spring comes with rhyme.

Flowers that bloom in the winter may not survive till spring.

Feel happy and joyful like a fresh blooming spring flower.

Following dark winter's strife, a warm air rises, teemed with life. Birth, rebirth, as the waiting die. Old love, new love sprouts wings to fly.

Following the road down to Maienfeld, she said to herself, "If only I can meet the Spring, how happy I shall be." Today, she thought of the Spring as a gay messenger boy and smilingly she imagined him "in a beautiful apple green suit with daisies studding his shoes" as it says in the song.

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.

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

[F]or he had heard an inarticulate promise: he has been pierced by Spring, that sharp knife. And life unscales its rusty weathered pelt, and earth wells out in tender exhaustless strength, and the cup of a man’s heart runs over with dateless expectancy, tongueless promise, indefinable desire. Something gathers in the throat, something blinds him in the eyes, and faint and valorous horns sound through the earth.

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

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

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.

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.

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

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

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.

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.

Harsh winters precede pleasant springs.

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

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.

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.