Best 380 quotes in «seasons quotes» category

Heat is heat.

Here we go, everyone... It's Autumn Equinox time again. Sit back in your seats and hold on tight. It's going to get a little extra bumpy this year. Please remember, it has very little to do with you and a whole lot more to do with planetary alignment, gravitational pull and all that celestial crap. In a week or two it'll all be over and you will all feel much better, trust me.

Her fragility makes her uncomfortable, but it has a familiarity, too, like the biting cold of winter that you only half forget during other seasons.

History makers recognize the shift in times and seasons.

How many things by season season'd are, To their right praise and true perfection!

I am happy to experience beauty of each season; spring time, summer, autumn and winter.

How shall I remember thee? As a drop of eternal summer, or a blossom of tender spring? As a spark of autumn's stirring fire, or perhaps as the frost of winter's longest night? No, it shall not be as one of these, for these shall all come to pass, and you and I, though parted by sea and earth, will never fade.

If people were seasons, she'd be monsoon. After every downpour, the garden laughed like her, wild and free.

I believe in beauty. I believe in goodness. I believe in the power of turning: the other cheek, time, curve of the earth.

I dream of the summers we kissed, winters we missed, spring that blossomed, withering of the autumn, with hope in my heart, I dream of getting you back.

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

I believe someone made a grievous mistake when summer was created; no novitiate or god in their right mind would make a season akin to hell on purpose. Someone should be fired.

If you allow coldness to engulf you before winter, season is helpless to help you.

If the seasons bleed into each other like a watercolor painting, it means not enough fish and berries to last the winter, not enough wood chopped for the stove, not enough meat in the freezer. One year winter came so fast and so hard, the leaves on the birch trees didn't even have time to turn yellow and fall off; they froze solid green on the branches. They clung there for months on skinny skeleton arms, the color so blindingly wrong it was creepy. Every year it's a race between the seasons, and that year fall lost.

If you want to save the humankind, you should first take care of Nature. It's the legacy that we leave behind, That brings us hope, that's for sure!

I have a suspicion that when first built, Stonehenge may have glowed blue with St. Elmo's fire during certain times of the year

I have an affection for those transitional seasons, the way they take the edge off the intense cold of winter, or heat of summer.

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

I have seen times of plentiful and times of scarcity. I enjoy the times of prosperity and endure the times of difficulty.

I know the stars by heart, the armies of the night, and there in the lead the ones that bring us snow or the crops of summer, bring us all we have-- our great blazing kings of the sky, I know them, when they rise and when the fall . . .

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.

I love how summer just wraps it’s arms around you like a warm blanket.

I look into your heart And burdening past Like sweet sunshine Reflected on the morning drops Of dew

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.

In every time of season change: it is #wise to slow down and examine what our ego, thought-habits, and spiritual-energy are communicating to others...our environments. Truth is these thoughts (attitudes that aren't situationally static) are producing real activity, outcomes that shape our existence. Consider the conception of our thoughts, and what they will give birth to beyond the physical...they have an incredible power, with or without our active will, to lift us, sink us or soar us. Consider how we as human beings can be subject to the law enforcement of living under our own thought legislation...Selah.

In space there are no seasons, and this is as true of the ships that cross the distances between humanity's far-flung homes. But we measure our seasons anyway: by a smile, a silence, a song.

In the spring and summer I watched my plants flower, but it was, perhaps, in winter that I loved them best, when their skeletons were exposed. Then I felt they had more to say to me, were not simply dressing themselves for the crowds. Stripped of their leaves, their identities showed forth stark, essential.

In summer, you remember yourself; in autumn, you forget yourself!

In the sacred season, we shall harvest the ripen fruit.

In the spring you smell last fall's death and this year's growth as the elder lichen shows the young how to grow.

In the summer heat the reapers say, “We have seen her dancing with the autumn leaves, and we saw a drift of snow in her hair.

I think that to one in sympathy with nature, each season, in turn, seems the loveliest.

Is not this a true autumn day? Just the still melancholy that I love - that makes life and nature harmonise. The birds are consulting about their migrations, the trees are putting on the hectic or the pallid hues of decay, and begin to strew the ground, that one's very footsteps may not disturb the repose of earth and air, while they give us a scent that is a perfect anodyne to the restless spirit. Delicious autumn! My very soul is wedded to it, and if I were a bird I would fly about the earth seeking the successive autumns." [Letter to Miss Lewis, Oct. 1, 1841]

It is not summer, England doesn't have summer, it has continuous autumn with a fortnight's variation here and there.

It was a warm night for the end of March. Walt had left the front door to the ice-cream parlor open when he went out after supper to gossip with the old men down at Darly Stidger's Store. And yet it was not spring, although winter was dead and the moon was sickly with the neitherness of the time between those seasons: those last few weeks before the cries of the green frogs would rise in stitching clamor from the river shores and meadow bogs.

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.

It is the time when you should stop absorbing negativity from others while also putting a complete stop to all those lies that you tell to yourself unwittingly. Let you free yourself & your true nature from the grip of delusions. Let you uncover your eternal being & embrace your truth, reality & potential with gladness so that you can lead to your destiny comfortably. Let you find whole universe backing you & supporting you in your honest endeavors & persistent good deeds. Let you continuously believe in your God, in yourself & let you have nothing to worry about. Let you use this time of the year to become your ultimate best. Stay Blissful, Successful & Blessed!

It was almost May. I knew that New York was getting warm now, that London was wet, that Rome was hot -- and I was on Vieques, where it was always hot and where New York and London and Rome were just names on a map.

It was the final, explosive demonstration of summer, the line in the sand, a desperate attempt to hold fall forever at bay. But autumn nibbled the blue sky with its teeth, tore off chunks of the sun, smudged out that heavy veil of meat-smelling smoke.

It makes no sense to try to extend a friendship that was only meant to be a season into a lifetime.

[It's Not About You, Mr. Santa Claus,] is a fun read and a twist on Christmas, because it does involve Santa Claus and Jesus, and it doesn’t say that Santa Claus is bad, but it’s the child explaining to Santa Claus the true reason for the season is Jesus.

It was early summer. And everything, as it always does, began to heave and change.

I was transformed the day My ego shattered, And all the superficial, material Things that mattered To me before, Suddenly ceased To matter.

My idea of Christmas is love. Love exists at all times.

Love all the seasons, because every season has its own treasures! Winter does not own the treasures of the spring; the spring does not own the treasures of the winter! If you know only the autumn, you are poor; if you know only the summer, you are poor! To be rich, love all the seasons and live all the seasons! Wise and rich man is the one who knows all the treasures of all the seasons!

Love has no seasons nor reasons. It breezes, and fragrances with the heartbeat.

Love is the only flower that blooms and blossoms without the aid of seasons.

Methinks I see the sunset light flooding the river valley, the western hills stretching to the horizon, overhung with trees gorgeous and glowing with the tints of autumn -- a mighty flower garden blossoming under the spell of the enchanter, frost.

No, not of course at all—it is really all hocus-pocus. The days lengthen in the winter-time, and when the longest comes, the twenty-first of June, the beginning of summer, they begin to go downhill again, toward winter. You call that ‘of course’; but if one once loses hold of the fact that it is of course, it is quite frightening, you feel like hanging on to something. It seems like a practical joke—that spring begins at the beginning of winter, and autumn at the beginning of summer. You feel you’re being fooled, led about in a circle, with your eye fixed on something that turns out to be a moving point. A moving point in a circle. For the circle consists of nothing but such transitional points without any extent whatever; the curvature is incommensurable, there is no duration of motion, and eternity turns out to be not ‘straight ahead’ but ‘merry-go-round’!

No matter where one looked, the sky had a clean-washed appearance. There was not a trace of a cloud to be seen anywhere in its vast expanse. It was one of those days that made one want to open doors and gates to release the last traces of winter, to watch them disappear like thin wisps of smoke into the farthest reaches of the sky.