Miguel de Cervantes Quotes

One swallow maketh not summer.

One swallow does not make a spring, nor does one fine day.

... the spring, the summer, The chilling autumn, angry winter, change Their wonted liveries; and the mazed world By their increase, now knows not which is which.

Linus: It was a short summer, Charlie Brown. Charlie Brown: And it looks like it's gonna be a looong winter.

Before the war, and especially before the Boer War, it was summer all the year round.

One swallow is a coincidence, but two swallows make summer.

The spring rains woke the dormant tillers, and bright green shoots sprang from the moist earth and rose like sleepers stretching after a long nap. As spring gave way to summer, the bright green stalks darkened, became tan, turned golden brown. The days grew long and hot. Thick towers of swirling black clouds brought rain, and the brown stems glistened in the perpetual twilight that dwelled beneath the canopy. The wheat rose and the ripening heads bent in the prairie wind, a rippling curtain, an endless, undulating sea that stretched to the horizon.

Yet there is no spring in Florida, neither in boskage perdu, nor on the nunnery beaches.

Spring, summer, and fall fill us with hope; winter alone reminds us of the human condition.

The falling leaves drift by the window The autumn leaves of red and gold.... I see your lips, the summer kisses The sunburned hands, I used to hold Since you went away, the days grow long And soon I'll hear ol' winter's song. But I miss you most of all my darling, When autumn leaves start to fall.

The thing you can count on in life is that Tennessee will always be scorching hot in August.

I think that I shall never see A poem lovely as a tree. A tree whose hungry mouth is pressed Against the earth's sweet flowing breast; A tree that looks at God all day And lifts her leafy arms to pray; A tree that may in summer wear A nest of robins in her hair; Upon whose bosom snow has lain; Who intimately lives with rain. Poems are made by fools like me, But only God can make a tree.

I only know that summer sang in me A little while, that in me sings no more.

In early June the world of leaf and blade and flowers explodes, and every sunset is different.

I'm having a seriously hard time getting used to the fact that summer is over and I have to get out of bed every morning to go to school.

For they are the knights of summer, and winter is coming.

All sounds are sharper in winter; the air transmits better. At night I hear more distinctly the steady roar of the North Mountain. In summer it is a sort of complacent purr, as the breezes stroke down its sides; but in winter always the same low, sullen growl.

Quite possibly there's nothing as fine as a big freight train starting across country in early summer, Hardesty thought. That's when you learn that the tragedy of plants is that they have roots.

Our seasons have no fixed returns, Without our will they come and go; At noon our sudden summer burns, Ere sunset all is snow.

My love for you will still be strong after the boys of summer have gone.

In course of time the slow advance of knowledge, which has dispelled so many cherished illusions, convinced at least the more thoughtful portion of mankind that the alterations of summer and winter, of spring and autumn, were not merely the result of their own magical rites, but that some deeper cause, some mightier power, was at work behind the shifting scenes of nature.

The music of the far-away summer flutters around the Autumn seeking its former nest.

From the days when it was always summer in Eden, to these days when it is mostly winter in fallen latitudes, the world of a man has invariably gone one way Charles Darnay's way the way of the love of a woman