it's a smile, it's a kiss, it's a sip of wine ... it's summertime!
A man says a lot of things in summer he doesn't mean in winter.
I almost wish we were butterflies and liv'd but three summer days - three such days with you I could fill with more delight than fifty common years could ever contain.
Spring passes and one remembers one's innocence. Summer passes and one remembers one's exuberance. Autumn passes and one remembers one's reverence. Winter passes and one remembers one's perseverance.
Now is the winter of our discontent.
There is no such thing as bad weather, only different kinds of good weather.
What good is the warmth of summer, without the cold of winter to give it sweetness.
So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
Green was the silence, wet was the light, the month of June trembled like a butterfly.
The end-of-summer winds make people restless.
Rest is not idleness, and to lie sometimes on the grass under trees on a summer's day, listening to the murmur of the water, or watching the clouds float across the sky, is by no means a waste of time.
Ah, summer, what power you have to make us suffer and like it.
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date . . .
Being a child at home alone in the summer is a high-risk occupation. If you call your mother at work thirteen times an hour, she can hurt you.
Summer's lease hath all too short a date.
That familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer.
One must maintain a little bittle of summer, even in the middle of winter.
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May.
Catch, then, oh! catch the transient hour,
Improve each moment as it flies;
Life's a short summer-man a flower;
He dies-alas! how soon he dies!
There's no such thing as bad weather, just soft people.
It was June, and the world smelled of roses. The sunshine was like powdered gold over the grassy hillside.
Summer afternoon, summer afternoon; to me those have always been the two most beautiful words in the English language.
Catch, then, O catch the transient hour; Improve each moment as it flies!
And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees, just as things grow in fast movies, I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer.
I know I am but summer to your heart, and not the full four seasons of the year.
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