Best 380 quotes in «seasons quotes» category

The place between actual seasons is filled with tiny roses in transition. There are murders and amputations in the garden. There are choirs on the sandy floors beneath oceans.

there are those who are cursed to live in times when death seems to come out of season, when the winter of a man's life may leap upon him in the midst of summer greenness.

The quiet transition from autumn to winter is not a bad time at all. It's a time for protecting and securing things and for making sure you've got in as many supplies as you can. It's nice to gather together everything you possess as close to you as possible, to store up your warmth and your thoughts and burrow yourself into a deep hole inside, a core of safety where you can defend what is important and precious and your very own. Then the cold and the storms and the darkness can do their worst. They can grope their way up the walls looking for a way in, but they won't find one, everything is shut, and you sit inside, laughing in your warmth and your solitude, for you have had foresight.

There are times when a man should sleep entwined in the warm flesh of a woman, his flanks plummeting into the perfumed bedding while she lovingly rolls her sweet shoulders into his chest. Whereas, there are times to be stoic and solitary—sleeping alone on a wooden board with twill sheets and splinters that scratch the skin.

There are five seasons : spring, summer, autumn, winter . . . and hard times. ~ Nkwachukwu Ogbuagu

There's a time for exposure; until then keep laboring in obscurity.

There was an ocean above us, held in by a thin sac that might rupture and let down a flood at any second.

There is a season for everything under the sun—even when we can’t see the sun.

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

THE SEASONS REMIND ME THAT I MUST KEEP CHANGING.

The seasons teach us how to do life well, revealing a life-giving rhythm: we flourish through intentional periods of stillness, growth, hard work, and rest.

The seasons long for each other, like men and women, in order that they may be cured of their excesses. Spring, if it lingers more than a week beyond its span, starts to hunger for summer to end the days of perpetual promise. Summer in its turn soon begins to sweat for something to quench its heat, and the mellowest of autumns will tire of gentility at last, and ache for a quick sharp frost to kill its fruitfulness. Even winter - the hardest season, the most implacable - dreams, as February creeps on, of the flame that will presently melt it away. Everything tires with time, and starts to seek some opposition, to save it from itself.

There is a TIME AND A PLACE to be WORDY---and...There is a TIME AND A PLACE to be BRIEF.

The summer in you calms the winter in me.

The seasonal urge is strong in poets. Milton wrote chiefly in winter. Keats looked for spring to wake him up (as it did in the miraculous months of April and May, 1819). Burns chose autumn. Longfellow liked the month of September. Shelley flourished in the hot months. Some poets, like Wordsworth, have gone outdoors to work. Others, like Auden, keep to the curtained room. Schiller needed the smell of rotten apples about him to make a poem. Tennyson and Walter de la Mare had to smoke. Auden drinks lots of tea, Spender coffee; Hart Crane drank alcohol. Pope, Byron, and William Morris were creative late at night. And so it goes.

The seasons bring to life the living lyre

The summer colours have been drained from their bodies, and they've grown pale and flabby again.

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, moon, weather, climate and all seasons speak its appearance, to let us feel and realize; it's a way to introduce oneself.

The tide was coming in at Cosmo Bay and the sky bubbled with a vivid orange before smoothing out to a fading lilac over the calm sea. The late-surfers were heading back to shore, laughing and shivering slightly at the chilly breeze. A few stragglers walked, hunch-shouldered, along the rocky beach with a dog or two, or simply alone. They looked to be personal victims of the sky-god's wrath. Imprisoned by the aquatic borders oppressing them and containing them. Limiting their freedoms and joys the same way the ocean limits the sky itself. In a small coastal town like Caprice, the times only grew more depressing during the late autumn months. The locals died and shrivelled with the leaves and trees as their plastic smiles faded with the last few holidaymakers.

The sun was brightly mild. There was the crisp sound of maple leaves just ripe enough to fall, and leather oak leaves that would cling until a wind took them, and the smell from the fields of all the life that had burned through all those crops until it spent itself down like a fire. It was almost the smell of smoke.

The winter will be short, the summer long, The autumn amber-hued, sunny and hot, Tasting of cider and of scuppernong.

The warming springtime of human hope does not give in to the wintry smiles of the cynic and the realist; it blossoms and it perishes in the sad autumnal winds. And then it is born again - for ever and ever.

They know no urge of seasons; they feel no kiss of sun, no lash of wind and weather. They live forever by not living at all.

They lied for new season after 5 for Breaking bad, they stopped the incrediable series "Lie to me", after season 3 there isn't other. It's horrible isn't it?

They're sitting on the floor in A Stitch in Time, surrounded on all sides by dresses of every imaginable color. Cora realizes as she glances around, her gaze flitting quickly from one wall to the next, that Etta has arranged them like the seasons: sparkling whites, grays, blacks for winter; shimmering greens and blues for spring; pinks and purples for summer; reds, oranges and yellows for autumn. Together they are breathtaking, almost too bright if stared at for too long, like falling through a rainbow lit by the sun.

Things have their time, even eminence bows to timeliness.

The winter was blasting its cold winds of dire portent into the tender face of springtime.

Thus unto winter’s chill embrace I turn Who once the summer’s sun did blithely bide ‘Neath solemn visage cold and fair and stern In her cool breast my hot heart to confide. Denied the warmth and wit of summer’s sun Or springtime’s strength, and bright, melodious song I dreamed not to complete what I’d begun Nor dared to haste the laggard hours along. But now with spring and summer sun at rest Laid bare before bright winter’s pale charms I would for love of her lay down my quest And take my ease in Winter-Lady’s arms. Before her beauty fair ‘neath snow-swept sky All other seasons blanch and fade, and die. - The Lost Knight's Lament, "Winter's Lady" (Forthcoming)

Though his health and family had been broken in the process, he'd found his purpose in life — to share the ancient key discovered anew in the garden: if we feed the earth, it will feed us. I see that is the secret, too, to living. Though the earth demands its sacrifices, spring will always return

This is the vowel of earth dreaming its root in flowers and snow, mutation of weathers and seasons, a windfall composing the floor it rots into. I grew out of all this like a weeping willow inclined to the appetites of gravity.

Time is not just the hands of a clock. It isn't just a change of seasons either. It is a treasure trove of precious moments, infinite little joys and blessings, precious smiles, tears and heartbeats.

To animals they were just the weather, just part of everything. But humans arose and gave them names, just as people filled the starry sky with heroes and monsters, because this turned them into stories. And humans loved stories, because once you'd turned things into stories, you could change the stories.

To attain the wisdom of every season, you must live all the seasons!

Transformations are a part of life. We are constantly being changed by things changing around us.

Try to pause each day and take a walk to view nature.

...time can be slowed if you live deliberately. If you stop and watch sunsets. If you spend time sitting on porches listening to the woods. If you give in to the reality of the seasons.

To me it seems that youth is like spring, an overpraised season-- delightful if it happen to be a favoured one, but in practice very rarely favoured and more remarkable, as a general rule, for biting east winds than genial breezes. Autumn is the mellower season, and what we lose in flowers we more than gain in fruits.

To nature lovers, the season of new beginnings is the spring, but to people who excel in school, it's the fall.

To see the light of the world is to be the baobab trees, to watch our own leaves seasoned in quarters of a million years only to become gold to the unknown soil, a threat to the sky

Welcome sweet November, the season of senses and my favorite month of all.

We're looking at the coming of spring like we look at the coming of babies we never considered aborting; Hopeful.

We watch the sky, we watch it alive and we watch it die, looking for signs. We live like wind, with hope in wings that we will get there, never sooner or never later, but at a right time.

What are you? Spring or summer? Winter or autumn? None or all? Whatever you are, always be mild! Are you winter, then be a mild winter! Summer? Be a mild summer!

When it is time for a season to change, the imperfections of life are most visible.

When leaves begin to sprout, we know spring season is here.

When there is nothing left to learn from the winter, move on to the spring!

When we are smitten, we await love to be “remontant” and to be blooming over and over again”, like remontant roses, with blossoms scenting through all the seasons of life. Passion and patience are to be good allies, though.

Winter is icummen in, Lhude sing Goddamm, Raineth drop and staineth slop And how the wind doth ramm! Sing: Goddamm. Skiddeth bus and sloppeth us, An ague hath my ham. Freezeth river, turneth liver Damn you, sing: Goddamm. Goddamm, Goddamm, tis why I am, Goddamm. So 'gainst the winter's balm Sing Goddamm, damm, sing Goddamm Sing Goddamm, sing Goddamm, DAMM.

WINTER'S GHOST: Autumn moon incautious in the dark river Winter’s ghost walks with a covered face and silver bones wait in all animals to be bone cloth upon her shoulder wait for her happiness in that they are silver