|
36cf450
|
In the spring, at the end of the day, you should smell like dirt.
|
|
spring
|
Margaret Atwood |
|
57ffd8f
|
"Is the spring coming?" he said. "What is it like?"... "It is the sun shining on the rain and the rain falling on the sunshine..."
|
|
nature
spring
children
classic
|
Frances Hodgson Burnett |
|
8aa8953
|
When spring came, even the false spring, there were no problems except where to be happiest. The only thing that could spoil a day was people and if you could keep from making engagements, each day had no limits. People were always the limiters of happiness except for the very few that were as good as spring itself.
|
|
hemingway
spring
|
Ernest Hemingway |
|
7c042c1
|
Aprils have never meant much to me, autumns seem that season of beginning, spring.
|
|
seasons
spring
beginning
|
Truman Capote |
|
3d1fdfe
|
If we had no winter, the spring would not be so pleasant: if we did not sometimes taste of adversity, prosperity would not be so welcome.
|
|
seasons
winter
life
inspirational
appreciation
adversity
spring
hardship
prosperity
|
Anne Bradstreet |
|
1d4828a
|
Nostalgia in reverse, the longing for yet another strange land, grew especially strong in spring.
|
|
seasons
life
spring
desire
wanderlust
nostalgia
|
Vladimir Nabokov |
|
cf4056e
|
"sweet spring is your time is my time is our time for springtime is lovetime and viva sweet love (all the merry little birds are flying in the floating in the very spirits singing in are winging in the blossoming) lovers go and lovers come awandering awondering but any two are perfectly alone there's nobody else alive (such a sky and such a sun i never knew and neither did you and everybody never breathed quite so many kinds of yes) not a tree can count his leaves each herself by opening but shining who by thousands mean only one amazing thing (secretly adoring shyly tiny winging darting floating merry in the blossoming always joyful selves are singing) sweet spring is your time is my time is our
|
|
spring
|
E. e. cummings |
|
0af7ccf
|
who knows if the moon's a balloon,coming out of a keen city in the sky--filled with pretty people? ( and if you and I should get into it,if they should take me and take you into their balloon, why then we'd go up higher with all the pretty people than houses and steeples and clouds: go sailing away and away sailing into a keen city which nobody's ever visited,where always it's Spring)and everyone's in love and flowers pick themselves
|
|
balloon
hot-air-balloon
lunar
spring
flowers
moonlight
luna
|
e.e. cummings |
|
dc90a80
|
I enjoy the spring more than the autumn now. One does, I think, as one gets older.
|
|
spring
old
|
Virginia Woolf |
|
9570cbe
|
We can't possibly have a summer love. So many people have tried that the name's become proverbial. Summer is only the unfulfilled promise of spring, a charlatan in place of the warm balmy nights I dream of in April. It's a sad season of life without growth...It has no day.
|
|
august
charlatan
july
september
spring
june
summer
|
F. Scott Fitzgerald |
|
53f702b
|
That is one good thing about this world...there are always sure to be more springs.
|
|
good-things
l-m-montgomery
spring
|
L.M. Montgomery |
|
97f5d77
|
With so many trees in the city, you could see the spring coming each day until a night of warm wind would bring it suddenly in one morning. Sometimes the heavy cold rains would beat it back so that it would seem that it would never come and that you were losing a season out of your life. This was the only truly sad time in Paris because it was unnatural. You expected to be sad in the fall. Part of you died each year when the leaves fell from the trees and their branches were bare against the wind and the cold, wintry light. But you knew there would always be the spring, as you knew the river would flow again after it was frozen. When the cold rains kept on and killed the spring, it was as though a young person had died for no reason. In those days, though, the spring always came finally but it was frightening that it had nearly failed.
|
|
seasons
spring
fall
ernest-hemingway
|
Ernest Hemingway |
|
76167ec
|
April hath put a spirit of youth in everything. (Sonnet XCVIII)
|
|
spring
|
William Shakespeare |
|
a74f4c2
|
Yes, I deserve a spring-I owe nobody nothing.
|
|
owe
nobody
nothing
virginia-woolf
spring
|
Virginia Woolf |
|
1b8dd1b
|
People were always the limiters of happiness except for the very few that were as good as spring itself.
|
|
moveable-feast
spring
|
Ernest Hemingway |
|
6c09794
|
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.
|
|
seasons
winter
poets
poetry
writing
apple
april
auden
byron
de-la-mare
insomnia
longfellow
may
morris
nocturnal
season
september
shelley
spender
tennyson
pope
apples
coffee
spring
wordsworth
milton
fall
hart-crane
autumn
tea
keats
night
writers
burns
schiller
|
Helen Bevington |
|
06c0b29
|
"It always amazes me to look at the little, wrinkled brown seeds and think of the rainbows in 'em," said Captain Jim. "When I ponder on them seeds I don't find it nowise hard to believe that we've got souls that'll live in other worlds. You couldn't hardly believe there was life in them tiny things, some no bigger than grains of dust, let alone colour and scent, if you hadn't seen the miracle, could you?"
|
|
spring
seeds
resurrection
life-after-death
|
L.M. Montgomery |
|
6bf22d9
|
Always it's Spring)and everyone's in love and flowers pick themselves.
|
|
nature
love
spring
|
E.E. Cummings |
|
ffe1336
|
By March, the worst of the winter would be over. The snow would thaw, the rivers begin to run and the world would wake into itself again. Not that year. Winter hung in there, like an invalid refusing to die. Day after grey day the ice stayed hard; the world remained unfriendly and cold.
|
|
winter
march
thaw
ice
spring
snow
|
Neil Gaiman |
|
2c5dfa3
|
One minute it was Ohio winter, with doors closed, windows locked, the panes blind with frost, icicles fringing every roof, children skiing on slopes, housewives lumbering like great black bears in their furs along the icy streets. And then a long wave of warmth crossed the small town. A flooding sea of hot air; it seemed as if someone had left a bakery door open. The heat pulsed among the cottages and bushes and children. The icicles dropped, shattering, to melt. The doors flew open. The windows flew up. The children worked off their wool clothes. The housewives shed their bear disguises. The snow dissolved and showed last summer's ancient green lawns. Rocket summer. The words passed among the people in the open, airing houses. Rocket summer. The warm desert air changing the frost patterns on the windows, erasing the art work. The skis and sleds suddenly useless. The snow, falling from the cold sky upon the town, turned to a hot rain before it touched the ground. Rocket summer. People leaned from their dripping porches and watched the reddening sky. The rocket lay on the launching field, blowing out pink clouds of fire and oven heat. The rocket stood in the cold winter morning, making summer with every breath of its mighty exhausts. The rocket made climates, and summer lay for a brief moment upon the land....
|
|
winter
spring
summer
|
Ray Bradbury |
|
c86d402
|
We read the pagan sacred books with profit and delight. With myth and fable we are ever charmed, and find a pleasure in the endless repetition of the beautiful, poetic, and absurd. We find, in all these records of the past, philosophies and dreams, and efforts stained with tears, of great and tender souls who tried to pierce the mystery of life and death, to answer the eternal questions of the Whence and Whither, and vainly sought to make, with bits of shattered glass, a mirror that would, in very truth, reflect the face and form of Nature's perfect self. These myths were born of hopes, and fears, and tears, and smiles, and they were touched and colored by all there is of joy and grief between the rosy dawn of birth, and death's sad night. They clothed even the stars with passion, and gave to gods the faults and frailties of the sons of men. In them, the winds and waves were music, and all the lakes, and streams, and springs,--the mountains, woods and perfumed dells were haunted by a thousand fairy forms. They thrilled the veins of Spring with tremulous desire; made tawny Summer's billowed breast the throne and home of love; filled Autumns arms with sun-kissed grapes, and gathered sheaves; and pictured Winter as a weak old king who felt, like Lear upon his withered face, Cordelia's tears. These myths, though false, are beautiful, and have for many ages and in countless ways, enriched the heart and kindled thought. But if the world were taught that all these things are true and all inspired of God, and that eternal punishment will be the lot of him who dares deny or doubt, the sweetest myth of all the Fable World would lose its beauty, and become a scorned and hateful thing to every brave and thoughtful man.
|
|
winter
perfection
shakespeare
true
grief
doubt
passion
nature
joy
fear
past
death
dreams
music
hope
life
love
truth
hateful
philosophies
religion-myths
scorn
sacred-books
brave
tender
fairy
haunted
pagan
king-lear
spring
woods
fable
poetic
mountains
lake
birth
smiles
deny
eternity
autumn
punishment
gods
effort
tears
questions
mystery
beautiful
throne
summer
thought
delight
william-shakespeare
pleasure
|
Robert G. Ingersoll |
|
9167986
|
Unicorns are immortal. It is their nature to live alone in one place: usually a forest where there is a pool clear enough for them to see themselves-for they are a little vain, knowing themselves to be the most beautiful creatures in all the world, and magic besides. They mate very rarely, and no place is more enchanted than one where a unicorn has been born. The last time she had seen another unicorn the young virgins who still came seeking her now and then had called to her in a different tongue; but then, she had no idea of months and years and centuries, or even of seasons. It was always spring in her forest, because she lived there, and she wandered all day among the great beech trees, keeping watch over the animals that lived in the ground and under bushes, in nests and caves, earths and treetops. Generation after generation, wolves and rabbits alike, they hunted and loved and had children and died, and as the unicorn did none of these things, she never grew tired of watching them.
|
|
time
magic
nature
enchanted
born
virgins
pool
vain
unicorn
mate
forest
spring
watching
animals
unicorns
beautiful
|
Peter S. Beagle |
|
36a3a6e
|
...as young and as ancient as Spring....
|
|
spring
|
J.R.R. Tolkien |
|
5ab42bf
|
"Yesterday it was sun outside. The sky was blue and people were lying under blooming cherry trees in the park. It was Friday, so records were released, that people have been working on for years. Friends around me find success and level up, do fancy photo shoots and get featured on big, white, movie screens. There were parties and lovers, hand in hand, laughing perfectly loud, but I walked numbly through the park, round and round, 40 times for 4 hours just wanting to make it through the day. There's a weight that inhabits my chest some times. Like a lock in my throat, making it hard to breathe. A little less air got through and the sky was so blue I couldn't look at it because it made me sad, swelling tears in my eyes and they dripped quietly on the floor as I got on with my day. I tried to keep my focus, ticked off the to-do list, did my chores. Packed orders, wrote emails, paid bills and rewrote stories, but the panic kept growing, exploding in my chest. Tears falling on the desk tick tick tick me not making a sound and some days I just don't know what to do. Where to go or who to see and I try to be gentle, soft and kind, but anxiety eats you up and I just want to be fine. This is not beautiful. This is not useful. You can not do anything with it and it tries to control you, throw you off your balance and lovely ways but you can not let it. I cleaned up. Took myself for a walk. Tried to keep my eyes on the sky. Stayed away from the alcohol, stayed away from the destructive tools we learn to use. the smoking and the starving, the running, the madness, thinking it will help but it only feeds the fire and I don't want to hurt myself anymore. I made it through and today I woke up, lighter and proud because I'm still here. There are flowers growing outside my window. The coffee is warm, the air is pure. In a few hours I'll be on a train on my way to sing for people who invited me to come, to sing, for them. My own songs, that I created. Me--little me. From nowhere at all. And I have people around that I like and can laugh with, and it's spring again.
|
|
lovely
madness
lovers
new-day
gratitude
drinking
joy
inspiration
sadness
music
songs
happiness
hope
be-okay
fine
panic-attacks
park
starving
panic-attack
chest
sound
ed
okay
self-destruction
wellness
grateful
hopeful
anxiety
alcohol
coffee
spring
well-being
art
singing
hurt
balance
sky
flowers
crying
focus
panic
sing
tears
walking
hopeless
recovery
sad
self-harm
smoking
mental-health
|
Charlotte Eriksson |
|
bbb1da1
|
Today has been a day dropped out of June into April.
|
|
months
april
spring
june
summer
|
L.M. Montgomery |
|
b7348b0
|
Comely was the town by the curving river that they dismantled in a year's time. Beautiful was Colleton in her last spring as she flung azaleas like a girl throwing rice at a desperate wedding. In dazzling profusion, Colleton ripened in a gauze of sweet gardens and the town ached beneath a canopy of promissory fragrance.
|
|
south-carolina
spring
small-town
nostalgia
|
Pat Conroy |
|
ef41c16
|
The weather here is windy, balmy, sometimes wet. Desert springtime, with flowers popping up all over the place, trees leafing out, streams gushing down from the mountains. Great time of year for hiking, camping, exploring, sleeping under the new moon and the old stars. At dawn and at evening we hear the coyotes howling with excitement - mating season. And lots of fresh rabbit meat hopping about to feed the young ones with.
|
|
nature
spring
|
Edward Abbey |
|
304ba41
|
These marvels were great and comfortable ones, but in the old England there was a greater still. The weather behaved itself. In the spring all the little flowers came out obediently in the meads, and the dew sparkled, and the birds sang; in the summer it was beautifully hot for no less than four months, and, if it did rain just enough for agricultural purposes, they managed to arrange it so that it rained while you were in bed; in the autumn the leaves flamed and rattled before the west winds, tempering their sad adieu with glory; and in the winter, which was confined by statute to two months, the snow lay evenly, three feet thick, but never turned into slush.
|
|
seasons
winter
bucolic
old-times
spring
england
summer
weather
|
T.H. White |
|
f48d4df
|
She told us about the goddess called Persephone, who was forced to spend half a year in the darkness deep underground. Winter happened when she was trapped inside the earth. The days shrank, they became cold and short and dark. Living things hid themselves away. Spring came when she was released and made her slow way up to the world again. The world became brighter and bolder in order to welcome her back. It began to be filled with warmth and light. The animals dared to wake, they dared to have their young. Plants dared to send out buds and shoots. Life dared to come back.
|
|
myth
seasons
winter
nature
life
spring
return
persephone
|
David Almond |
|
435a3d6
|
Spring is made of solid, fourteen-karat gratitude, the reward for the long wait. Every religious tradition from the northern hemisphere honors some form of April hallelujah, for this is the season of exquisite redemption, a slam-bang return to joy after a season of cold second thoughts.
|
|
joy
spring
|
Barbara Kingsolver |
|
e2d1651
|
He returned her love. He lusted after her sweet young body. He wanted her the way he wanted to breathe the spring air. He had never loved anyone before. He had not known even what this feeling for his tiny slave was. Now in the crisp, clear spring sunlight, he knew.
|
|
life
love
high-king
slave-girl
impossible-love
first-love
spring
sunlight
lust
king
|
Andrew M. Greeley |
|
768a093
|
In the spring when the wind is in the new leaves the echo of her voice may still be heard by the fall that bear her name.
|
|
the-fellowship-of-the-ring
the-lord-of-the-rings
spring
|
J.R.R. Tolkien |
|
4181c51
|
But only a person in the depths of despair neglected to look beyond winter to the spring that inevitably followed, bringing back color and life and hope.
|
|
winter
spring
person
|
Mary balogh |
|
d8a7708
|
"Those slight words and looks and touches are part of the soul's language; and the finest language, I believe, is chiefly made up of unimposing words, such as "light," "sound," "stars," "music"--words really not worth looking at, or hearing, in themselves, any more than "chips" or "sawdust." It is only that they happen to be the signs of something unspeakably great and beautiful. I am of opinion that love is a great and beautiful thing too, and if you agree with me, the smallest signs of it will not be chips and sawdust to you: they will rather be like those little words, "light" and "music," stirring the long-winding fibres of your memory and enriching your present with your most precious past."
|
|
love
spring
|
George Eliot |
|
588ce89
|
My birthday is in March, and that year it fell during an especially bright spring week, vivid and clear in the narrow residential streets where we lived just a handful of blocks south of Sunset. The night-blooming jasmine that crawled up our neighborhood's front gate released its heady scent at dusk, and to the north, the hills rolled charmingly over the horizon, houses tucked into the brown. Soon, daylight savings time would arrive, and even at early nine, I associated my birthday with the first hint of summer, with the feeling in classrooms of open windows and lighter clothing and in a few months no more homework. My hair got lighter in spring, from light brown to nearly blond, almost like my mother's ponytail tassel. In the neighborhood gardens, the agapanthus plants started to push out their long green robot stems to open up to soft purples and blues.
|
|
hair-color
rose-edelstein
plants
march
spring
|
Aimee Bender |
|
48e3205
|
"It had been in a Paris house, with many people around, and my dear friend Jules Darboux, wishing to do me a refined aesthetic favor, had touched my sleeve and said, "I want you to meet-" and led me to Nina, who sat in the corner of a couch, her body folded Z-wise, with an ashtray at her heel, and she took a long turquoise cigarette holder from her lips and joyfully, slowly exclaimed, "Well, of all people-" and then all evening my heart felt like breaking, as I passed from group to group with a sticky glass in my fist, now and then looking at her from a distance (she did not look...), and listening to scraps of conversation, and overheard one man saying to another, "Funny, how they all smell alike, burnt leaf through whatever perfume they use, those angular dark-haired girls," and as it often happens, a trivial remark related to some unknown topic coiled and clung to one's own intimate recollection, a parasite of its sadness." --
|
|
in
spring
|
Vladimir Nabokov |
|
c311feb
|
There are no secrets, there is no mystery. We make that all up. In fact, it's all right there in front of us. You have to have enough food to get through winter and spring. That's what it all comes down to. You have to live in a way that will gather enough food each fall to get through winter.
|
|
winter
spring
mystery
|
Kim Stanley Robinson |
|
188b684
|
It was the United States of America in the cold late spring of 1967, and the market was steady and the G.N.P. high and a great many articulate people seemed to have a sense of high social purpose and it might have been a spring of brave hopes and national promise, but it was not, and more and more people had the uneasy apprehension that it was not.
|
|
g-n-p
united-states-of-america
brave
social
spring
purpose
|
Joan Didion |
|
fbe0bf1
|
And after winter folweth grene May.
|
|
winter
may
spring
follow
|
Geoffrey Chaucer |
|
40f2c2c
|
" Every season hath its pleasures; Spring may boast her flowery prime,
|
|
seasons
spring
fall
|
Thomas Moore |
|
f663a6c
|
"An Ashinabe "spring poem" translated by Gerald Vizenor: as my eyes look across the prairie i feel the summer in the spring"
|
|
spring
summer
|
Howard Zinn |
|
ebd3080
|
The people of Provence greeted spring with uncharacteristic briskness, as if nature had given everyone an injection of sap.
|
|
spring
|
Peter Mayle |
|
a0c401b
|
In the first week of April the weather turned suddenly, unseasonably, insistently lovely. The sky was blue, the air warm and windless, and the sun beamed on the muddy ground with all the sweet impatience of June. Toward the fringe of the wood, the young trees were yellow with the first tinge of new leaves; woodpeckers laughed and drummed in the copses and, lying in bed with my window open, I could hear the rush and gurgle of the melted snow running in the gutters all night long. In the second week of April everyone waited anxiously to see if the weather would hold. It did, with serene assurance. Hyacinth and daffodil bloomed in the flower beds, violet and periwinkle in the meadows; damp, bedraggled white butterflies fluttered drunkenly in the hedgerows. I put away my winter coat and overshoes and walked around, nearly light-headed with joy, in my shirtsleeves.
|
|
joy
spring
weather
|
Donna Tartt |
|
ebd2199
|
But even in the wealth of spring, he remembered the harshness of this country. It is a cunning place, he thought, a place of dangers, after all.
|
|
spring
|
John Ehle |