Best 380 quotes in «seasons quotes» category

Whatever happened in the regular season seems to not matter in the playoffs.

What Flaubert refers to as the “mélancholies du voyage” is like the sadness I feel as one season departs and another arrives.

What you do in the off season determines what you do in the regular season.

Why is it called tourist season if we can't shoot at them?

What we are is seldom what we want to be, while what we want to be is either denied us or changes with the seasons.

When it's football season, I'm all football.

When you have an inconsistent season, you learn a lot about yourself and your pitching.

Wherever there is love, there the season transforms into spring!

Winter = baking season. It's on.

Winter is a season of recovery and preparation.

Winter is not a season, it's an occupation.

Winter is not a season, it's a celebration.

Winter is the season of alcoholism and despair.

Winter: It's not just a season, it's who we are.

You can get a few seasons out of power, even accomplish some things, but over time power can be very damaging to relationships.

With [Fred] Zinnemann I did A Man For All Seasons. He was my screen godfather. I'm happy to say he was.

With patience everything comes in due season.

You can lose a friend in springtime easier than any other season if you're too curious.

You can never pat yourself on the back during the season. Then you get complacent, stop working and let yourself slide.

You cannot change the seasons, but you can change yourself.

You lack the season of all natures, sleep.

With every day that goes by, there will be further reductions on what's left of the season.

You know you're grown up when summer is just a season.

You'll find that there will be an investment for every season, but there will be no investment for all seasons.

You have one good game or season, so what? You have to have a career.

Youth is a season that has no repose.

You read a lot of pilots during pilot season, and not all of them really grab you.

A boy trudged down the sidewalk dragging a fishing pole behind him. A man stood waiting with his hands on his hips. Summertime, and his children played in the front yard with their friend, enacting a strange little drama of their own invention. It was fall, and his children fought on the sidewalk in front of Mrs. Dubose's. . . . Fall, and his children trotted to and fro around the corner, the day's woes and triumphs on their faces. They stopped at an oak tree, delighted, puzzled, apprehensive. Winter, and his children shivered at the front gate, silhouetted against a blazing house. Winter, and a man walked into the street, dropped his glasses, and shot a dog. Summer, and he watched his children's heart break. Autumn again, and Boo's children needed him. Atticus was right. One time he said you never really know a man until you stand in his shoes and walk around in them. Just standing on the Radley porch was enough.

Accept the seasons of your heart, even as you have always accepted the seasons that pass over your fields. And you would watch with serenity through the winters of your grief.

~A Comparison of Seasons~ Snow's unforgiving power causes some men to wish for spring's flower. Some might hate snow's bitter chill, but you love it at your own will. I see snow as something fun, but others might still long for summer's sun. You and I hate summer's heat, but we still love the warmth of a fire on our feet. Spring has jays whose virtuous songs are nice, but winter's lonely echoes are earth's frigged vice. I enjoy spring's life, yet I still love winter's seemingly harsh sorrow; sometimes I can't get out of the house, so I worry about tomorrow. I love the sight of snow and I treasure the sight of summer's river which swiftly flows. Also, winter can be cold, but we can look forward to seeing spring's life and joy unfold.

After that, the strawberry wood became my favorite place to go. In the summer I picked the fruit, and ran up and down the alleys of trees, and in autumn, collected acorns, and lay on my back watching the sky through the open branches. In the spring, I picked violets, and wild garlic by the riverbank. In winter I built tunnels under the barrows of brambles, and all year round I watched the well, and listened to its breathing, and sometimes dropped a coin or a stone into the water, and whispered into the darkness.

A garden did not need people in order to be alive and natural. The flowers might have died, and the last leaves might be falling, but the space was still redolent with the odors of life. It contained a thousand reassurances that no matter what one person’s strife, the seasons continued their cycle.

All-cheering Plenty, with her flowing horn, Led yellow Autumn, wreath'd with nodding corn." [Brigs of Ayr]

All seasons are beautifully filled with splendid wonders.

All seasons are spectacular.

You must wait until the end, and at the end of the season you can say it was a good or a bad season.

All seasons have something to offer

All things are beautiful in the sacred time.

All times are determined by God.

All times are sacred and must be kept Holy

And no matter how romantic and beautiful Greece was, I wasn't going to break my vows to Henry, even if they technically didn't apply for the next six months. I loved him no matter which season it was.

An early spring started one morning in March with a swarm of sudden, glassy, bird cries, and then the cool jewelry of primrose and violet loosened themselves in the dirt. Then summer burst into the world like a gorgeous car accident- opening eyes all over our bodies in the brilliant light. Fall- the smell of pumpkin guts, sluttish and unsweetened. Until winter fell all over us like pieces of heaven, glazed with oxygen or ether, hitting the grounder in small, cold shards. It was like a year in Eden where no Eve had ever lived.

As far as he could discover, there were no signs of spring. The decay that covered the surface of the mottled ground was not the kind in which life generates. Last year, he remembered, May had failed to quicken these soiled fields. It had taken all the brutality of July to torture a few green spikes through the exhausted dirt. What the little park needed, even more than he did, was a drink. Neither alcohol nor rain would do. Tomorrow, in his column, he would ask Broken-hearted, Sick-of-it-all, Desperate, Disillusioned-with-tubercular-husband and the rest of his correspondents to come here and water the soil with their tears. Flowers would then spring up, flowers that smelled of feet. "Ah, humanity..." But he was heavy with shadow and the joke went into a dying fall. He trist to break its fall by laughing at himself.

As the season changes, we learn to adapt.

As WE look back on OUR JOURNEYS...May WE FOCUS on our SEASONS of JOY and GREAT HAPPINESS---'NOT on our Season of sighing---and our Bottles filled with Tears'...FOR NO ONE IS EXEMPT from that Season...IT is ALL a part of LIFE...So, Let US LAY THIS SEASON BY THE SIDE OF THE ROAD---As WE PRESS ON.

Autumn is autumn.

Autumn into winter was called Shadowfest, and was the night to predict the future and communicate with the dead. Winter into spring was called the Feast of the Wolf, and was a time to celebrate and make love. Spring into summer was called Lady's Day, and was a time to be handfasted and to dance about the maypole. Summer into autumn was called Cornucopia, when we celebrated the harvest and and enjoyed the fruits of the earth.

A useful education served women best, More thought. To ‘learn how to grow old gracefully is perhaps one of the rarest and most valuable arts which can be taught to a woman.’ Yet, when beauty is all that is expected or desired in a woman, she is left with nothing in its absence. It ‘is a most severe trail for those women to be called to lay down beauty, who have nothing else to take up. It is for this sober season of life that education should lay up its rich resources,’ she argued.

Autumn has come and reason has gone. Yesterday, I sold the sun for you and tonight the stars are running away from me. When you first spoke, you slowly annihilated my world. Your mouth was like the sea — in your kisses I sank. Your hands were like the ocean — in your caresses I sank. I ask for no salvation on this moonless night. I only ask for more Autumn.

Autumn in the country advances in a predictable path, taking its place among the unyielding rhythms of the passing seasons. It follows the summer harvest, ushering in cooler nights, and shorter days, enveloping all of Lanark County in a spectacular riot of colour. Brilliant hues of yellow, orange and red exclaim, in no uncertain terms, that these are the trees where maple syrup legends are born.