April comes like an idiot, babbling and stewing flowers.
Autumn arrives in early morning, but spring at the close of a winter day.
For, lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone; the flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land.
Indoors or out, no one relaxes in March, that month of wind and taxes, the wind will presently disappear, the taxes last us all the year.
January gray is here, like a sexton by her grave; February bears the bier, march with grief doth howl and rave, and April weeps — but, O ye hours! Follow with May's fairest flowers.
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.
One of the joys our technological civilization has lost is the excitement with which seasonal flowers and fruits were welcomed; the first daffodil, strawberry or cherry are now things of the past, along with their precious moment of arrival. Even the tangerine — now a satsuma or clementine — appears de-pipped months before Christmas.
One swallow does not make a summer, but one skein of geese, cleaving the murk of March thaw, is the Spring.
Spring being a tough act to follow, God created June.
Spring is not the best of seasons. Cold and flu are two good reasons; wind and rain and other sorrow, warm today and cold tomorrow. Whoever said Spring was romantic? The word that best applies is frantic!
Spring is when you feel like whistling even with a shoe full of slush.
Summer afternoon — summer afternoon; to me those have always been the two most beautiful words in the English language.
The first fall of snow is not only an event, it is a magical event. You go to bed in one kind of a world and wake up in another quite different, and if this is not enchantment then where is it to be found?
The seasons are what a symphony ought to be: four perfect movements in harmony with each other.
To be interested in the changing seasons is, in this middling zone, a happier state of mind than to be hopelessly in love with spring.
When chill November's surly blast make fields and forest bare.