Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee,
Whether the summer clothe the general earth
With greenness, or the redbreast sit and sing
Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch
Of mossy apple-tree, while the nigh thatch
Smokes in the sunthaw; whether the eve-drops fall,
Heard only in the trances of the blast,
Of if the secret ministry of frost
Shall hang them up in silent icicles,
Quietly shining to the quiet moon.
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Change is a measure of time and, in the autumn, time seems speeded up. What was is not and never read more
Change is a measure of time and, in the autumn, time seems speeded up. What was is not and never again will be; what is is change.
To be interested in the changing seasons is a happier state of mind than to be hopelessly in love with read more
To be interested in the changing seasons is a happier state of mind than to be hopelessly in love with spring.
If we had no winter, the spring would not be so pleasant: if we did not sometimes taste of adversity, read more
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.
A perfect summer day is when the sun is shining, the breeze is blowing, the birds are singing, and the read more
A perfect summer day is when the sun is shining, the breeze is blowing, the birds are singing, and the lawn mower is broken.
Our seasons have no fixed returns,
Without our will they come and go;
At noon our sudden read more
Our seasons have no fixed returns,
Without our will they come and go;
At noon our sudden summer burns,
Ere sunset all is snow.
Spring is nature's way of saying, 'Let's party!'
Spring is nature's way of saying, 'Let's party!'
And you would accept the seasons of your heart just as you have always accepted that seasons pass over your read more
And you would accept the seasons of your heart just as you have always accepted that seasons pass over your fields and you would watch with serenity through the winters of your grief.
January grey is here,
Like a sexton by her grave;
February bears the bier,
read more
January grey 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.
Winter is an etching, spring a watercolor, summer an oil painting and autumn a mosaic of them all.
Winter is an etching, spring a watercolor, summer an oil painting and autumn a mosaic of them all.
