Best 1928 quotes in «summer quotes» category

Their house was about a mile outside of town. The kids would play outdoors, in the backyard and the large stubble field behind the house. Dusk seemed to last for hours, and when it was finally dark they would sit under the porch light, catching thickly buzzing June bugs and moths, or even an occasional toad who hopped into the circle of light, tempted by the halo of insects that floated around the bare orange lightbulb next to the front door

The mosquitos were gone from the porch, and surely when they abandoned the conflict the war with Time was really done, there was nothing for it but that humans also forsake the battleground.

The morning heat had already soaked through the walls, rising up from the floor like a ghost of summers past.

The next morning, I woke up to hear Becky moaning and rustling around in her bed covers. “I’m so itchy!” she cried. “So scratch!” I said, groggily, but suddenly, I felt itchy too. So, I started scratching my legs. They felt better until I stopped scratching. Then, it started to burn. I threw back the covers and saw that my legs were covered in red bumps. “My legs!” I yelled. Becky looked over at me. Then, she pulled back her covers. Her legs were even worse. She gasped. “Mom!” I cried. Mom came in. She was ready for work, wearing her dress shirt and gym shorts. She only had to dress up the top half of her body in case she had to use her webcam to talk to her boss. “What is it?” she asked. “Look!” I said, showing her our legs. “Oh no! That’s poison ivy!” she cried, “Where were you guys playing yesterday?” “The woods,” I said. “You must have been sitting in it,” she said. - The Castle Park Kids

The most obnoxious thing in the world is to listen to others drone on about how much they love the heat. I leaned over to one woman at the café, who was professing how at home she was in the sweltering rot of hell, and said, “If you enjoy the heat so much, marry it, honeymoon with it, and throw it off a cliff, to spare the rest of us the agony of having to listen to the joy of your wretched matrimony.” She laughed. I was completely serious.

The night had a nearly liquid quality, was like sliding into a warm swimming pool, a pool filled with buoyant darkenss instead of water.

The ocean was magical to her, its depths and mysteries were boundless, its call irresistible.

There are never enough water balloons.

The magic fades too fast the scent of summer never lasts the nights turn hollow and vast but nothing remains...nothing lasts.

Then there were long, lazy summer afternoons when there was nothing to do but read. And dream. And watch the town go by to supper. I think that is why our great men and women so often have sprung from small towns, or villages. They have had time to dream in their adolescence. No cars to catch, no matinees, no city streets, none of the teeming, empty, energy-consuming occupations of the city child. Little that is competitive, much that is unconsciously absorbed at the most impressionable period, long evenings for reading, long afternoons in the fields or woods.

The old summer's-end melancholy nips at my heels. There's no school to go back to; no detail of my life will change come the onset of September; yet still, I feel the old trepidation.

The outside world might have finally turned into autumn, but inside the Waverley house it still smelled of summer. It was lemon verbena day, so the house was filled with a sweet-tart that conjured images of picnic blankets and white clouds like true-love hearts.

There are tanned Goths?” Drew asks. I’d forgotten what it can be like with the two of them, constantly bickering in that way that says they really love one another as deeply as only twins can. ", Loving Summer by Kailin Gow

There are two times in a person's life when there is the possibility of pure happiness: in youth and in summer.

There are two girls around my age, maybe a little older, checking them out. I can’t blame them, but they’re pretty obvious about it, just watching them and talking in low voices to one another. One, a dark-haired girl whose tight clothes do a lot to emphasize the curves she has, even comes over and pushes what looks like a slip of paper into Drew’s hand. They both walk off then, giggling. “What just happened?” I ask. Nat shakes his head with a smile. “Just the Drew effect. I’ll be back in a second. I just need one more ingredient.” He heads off, leaving me with Drew. I look at him. “The Drew effect? Seriously?” “I get it most places,” he says, starting to grin but then stopping himself. “Honestly, it can get pretty annoying.”, Loving Summer by Kailin Gow

There have been other girls. But they weren't her.

There is something deep within us that sobs at endings. Why, God, does everything have to end? Why does all nature grow old? Why do spring and summer have to go?

There, on the far side of of the Atlantic, would be Maine, but despite the shared ocean, her island and this one were worlds apart. Where Inishmaan was gray and brown, its fragile man-made soil supporting only the hardiest of low-growing plants, the fertile Quinnipeague invited tall pines in droves, not to mention vegetables, flowers, and improbable, irrepressible herbs. Lifting her head, eyes closed now, she breathed in the damp Irish air and the bit of wood smoke that drifted on the cold ocean wind. Quinnipeague smelled of wood smoke, too, since early mornings there could be chilly, even in summer. But the wood smoke would clear by noon, giving way to the smell of lavender, balsam, and grass. If the winds were from the west, there would be fry smells from the Chowder House; if from the south, the earthiness of the clam flats; if from the northeast, the purity of sweet salt air.

There’s a heat wave coming The wireless claims, a British summer, Of wants and expectations That never seem to materialise.

There’s something so sweet about him when he’s like this, though I guess that sweet is one word he won’t want to hear used about himself.", Loving Summer by Kailin Gow

There's nothing more beautiful than watching trees getting dressed up for Spring and Summer

There's this magical sense of possibility that stretches like a bridge between June and August. A sense that anything can happen.

There was a lonely summer Where I took the string and unraveled the magic circle from everything It was because of you, and what you did to me

The rhythm of a New York summer is passionate and powerful, evoking a rapid calypso, with July being the musical climax.

These three children own the summer. They know the wood as surely as they know the micro landscapes of their own grazed knees; put them down blindfolded in any dell or clearing and they could find their way out without putting a foot wrong. This is their territory, and they rule it wild and lordly as young animals; they scramble through its trees and hide-and-seek in its hollows all the endless day long, and all night in their dreams.

The sidewalks were haunted by dust ghosts all night as the furnace wind summoned them up, swung them about, and gentled them down in a warm spice on the lawns. Trees, shaken by the footsteps of late-night strol- lers, sifted avalanches of dust. From midnight on, it seemed a volcano beyond the town was showering red-hot ashes every- where, crusting slumberless night watchmen and irritable dogs. Each house was a yellow attic smoldering with spon- taneous combustion at three in the morning. Dawn, then, was a time where things changed element for element. Air ran like hot spring waters nowhere, with no sound. The lake was a quantity of steam very still and deep over valleys of fish and sand held baking under its serene vapors. Tar was poured licorice in the streets, red bricks were brass and gold, roof tops were paved with bronze. The high- tension wires were lightning held forever, blazing, a threat above the unslept houses. The cicadas sang louder and yet louder. The sun did not rise, it overflowed.

The sky blue strengthens slowly, the dawn light rosy and pale the summer song of our romance begin to unveil...with every heart beat and the waves' breath...the time stood in harmony still. Your morning kiss my hands could feel...by your lips soft, so warm, so very gentle, nice and full of life...

The smell of hyacinths in the summer night air. At this moment, standing here with a boy I just met who already feels like home, I am overwhelmed with city love.

The soles of her feet were summer-tough, numb to the jagged shells and bits of pinecone.

The stars glittered in the sky and as the number of people at the party grew there were merging conversations and laughter and bodies moving in outlines around the kegs of beer in a curtsy of youth.

The time for equivocation has passed. You can stop this at any point by telling me we will rule the court apart from a distance, but until you do so"-he let liquid sunlight drip onto her skin-"I'm playing for keeps. I'm not a mortal, Aislinn. I'm the Summer King, and I'm done pretending to be anything other than that." He leaned down and said, "We could be amazing together." Then he was gone.

There's nothing worse than feeling miserable on a beautiful day. It was one of those days where the weather was so perfect it was almost painful, the sky a clean slate of blue, and the soft, warm breeze playing on my cheeks and through my hair as if to say, "Come on, it's not THAT bad.

The sacred time exist in days, weeks, months, seasons and years.

These summer nights are short. Going to bed before midnight is unthinkable and talk, wine, moonlight and the warm air are often in league to defer it one, two or three hours more. It seems only a moment after falling asleep out of doors that dawn touches one gently on the shoulder, and, completely refreshed, up one gets, or creeps into the shade or indoors for another luxurious couple of hours. The afternoon is the time for real sleep: into the abyss one goes to emerge when the colours begin to revive and the world to breathe again about five o'clock, ready once more for the rigours and pleasures of late afternoon, the evening, and the night.

The smell of her hair lingered just out of reach of his memory and left him with a nervous hum resonating throughout his body like a child forced to sit in church while the sun was shining outside on a perfectly good summer's day.

The Steadfast Love of the Lord is not Seasonal; His Mercies do not have winter or summer days... They are new every now and then.

The summer,' Randy explained. 'I'm going to appreciate it. I'm going to walk in the woods noticing everything, and ride my bike on all the roads I never explored. I'm going to fill a pillow with ladies' tobacco so I can smell it in January and remember about August. I'm going to dry a big bunch of pennyroyal so I can break pieces off all winter and think of summer. I'm going to look at everything, and smell everything, and listen to everything so I'll never forget --

The summer I turned eleven, I found out that ghosts are real. Guess it's hard to rest nice and easy in your coffin if you got stuff on your mind. Your soul stays chained to earth instead of zipping up to heaven to sing in one of the angel choirs. Sometimes ghosts show up in the msot peculiar places. Sometimes ghosts fool you. Then you are those ghosts that hang around because we have unfinished business. Business that sinks like old crawfish left in a bucket for a week. That's some nasty smell let me tell you. But the most important thing I learned is that ghosts can help you spill your guts before guilt eats you up and leaves a hole that can't ever be fixed no matter how many patches you try to steam iron across it.

The summer sand has a secret to tell you. It is that you can’t hold life; you can just enjoy it.

The summer in you calms the winter in me.

The summer ended. Day by day, and taking its time, the summer ended. The noises in the street began to change, diminish, voices became fewer, the music sparse. Daily, blocks and blocks of children were spirited away. Grownups retreated from the streets, into the houses. Adolescents moved from the sidewalk to the stoop to the hallway to the stairs, and rooftops were abandoned. Such trees as there were allowed their leaves to fall - they fell unnoticed - seeming to promise, not without bitterness, to endure another year. At night, from a distance, the parks and playgrounds seemed inhabited by fireflies, and the night came sooner, inched in closer, fell with a greater weight. The sound of the alarm clock conquered the sound of the tambourine, the houses put on their winter faces. The houses stared down a bitter landscape, seeming, not without bitterness, to have resolved to endure another year.

The sun rode low in the sky, the storm clouds long gone. The ocean was calm today, not a white cap to be found. One would never have believed there'd been a storm less than forty-eight hours ago.

The ticking seconds pulled me toward the end. It was cold when he no longer held me. It got colder every step I took away from him. Just my imagination, of course. It was still summer here. It would always be summer here for me.

The urgent warnings: The dreamy terror of certain summer mornings.

The warmth of summer, the richness of expansion that creates the perfect environment for a body that wants to feel at least the illusion of warmth on top of its' old persevering soul that dwells within. This season, I no longer try to reach for that external warmth, but rather pray to find that spark that could light me up from deep inside. I trust my intuition and I know it is near, if only my eyes wouldn't be blinded by the sun.

The West Indian is not exactly hostile to change, but he is not much inclined to believe in it. This comes from a piece of wisdom that his climate of eternal summer teaches him. It is that, under all the parade of human effort and noise, today is like yesterday, and tomorrow will be like today; that existence is a wheel of recurring patterns from which no one escapes; that all anybody does in this life is live for a while and then die for good, without finding out much; and that therefore the idea is to take things easy and enjoy the passing time under the sun. The white people charging hopefully around the islands these days in the noon glare, making deals, bulldozing airstrips, hammering up hotels, laying out marinas, opening new banks, night clubs, and gift shops, are to him merely a passing plague. They have come before and gone before.

The whiff of ocean on the southern breeze and the smell of burning asphalt brought back memories of summers past. It had seemed as though those sweet dreams of summer would last forever: the warmth of a girl’s skin, an old rock ‘n’ roll song, freshly washed button-down shirt, the odor of cigarette smoke in a pool changing room, a fleeting premonition. Then one summer (when had it been?) the dreams had vanished, never to return.

The whole summer was inside of us.

The walk to school was as long and treacherous as every other day. There was a humming in the restless summer air, and the boy of silver planes and ivory lines ducked his head and would rather listen to the secrets hidden inside the cracks of the pavement than watch how the clouds would sink into the ocean like boats.

The warmly cool, clear, ringing, perfumed, overflowing, redundant days, were as crystal goblets of Persian sherbet, heaped up—flaked up, with rose-water snow.