seasonal cycle Quotes

One swallow does not make a summer, but one skein of geese, cleaving the murk of March thaw, is the Spring.

Long as there's a sun that sets, Primroses will have their glory; Long as there are violets, They will have a place in story: There's a flower that shall be mine, 'Tis the little Celandine.

Each new season grows from the leftovers from the past. That is the essence of change, and change is the basic law.

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.

It is only the farmer who faithfully plants seeds in the Spring, who reaps a harvest in the Autumn.

If there's a 'Cruel Summer' then there's got to be a 'Cruel Winter,' right? That's all I'm saying.

Summer treads on heels of spring.

If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?

June, July, all through the warm months she hibernated like a winter animal who did not know spring had come and gone.

Unless a tree has borne blossoms in spring, you will vainly look for fruit on it in autumn.

I have a kind of respect - a worshipful attitude, even - for nature and the natural order and the cosmos and the seasons.

Everything good, everything magical happens between the months of June and August. Winters are simply a time to count the weeks until the next summer

Now I realize that the trees blossom in Spring and bear fruit in Summer without seeking praise; and they drop their leaves in Autumn and become naked in Winter without fearing blame.

Watching the animals come and go, and feeling the land swell up to meet them and then feeling it grow still at their departure, I came to think of the migrations as breath, as the land breathing. In spring a great inhalation of light and animals. The long-bated breath of summer. And an exhalation that propelled them all south in the fall.

Each year the big garden grew smaller and Jane - who grew flowers by choice, not corn or stringbeans - worked at the vegetables more than I did. Each winter I dreamed crops, dreamed marvels of canning . . . and each summer I largely failed. Shamefaced, I planted no garden at all.

Winter, which, being full of care, makes summer's welcome thrice more wish'd, more rare.

I grew up on a farm. We learned that there was a season to plant, a season to water, and season to harvest. The planting and watering could be laborious, but without those stages, there would never be a harvest.

Every season, for me, it's like starting from scratch again.

Autumn to winter, winter into spring, Spring into summer, summer into fall,-- So rolls the changing year, and so we change; Motion so swift, we know not that we move.

So then the year is repeating its old story again. We are come once more, thank God! to its most charming chapter. The violets and the Mayflowers are as its inscriptions or vignettes. It always makes a pleasant impression on us, when we open again at these pages of the book of life.

Spring is God's way of saying, 'One more time!'

Live in each season as it passes; breathe the air, drink the drink, taste the fruit, and resign yourself to the influences of each. Let them be your only diet drink and botanical medicines.