And Spring arose on the garden fair, Like the Spirit of Love felt everywhere; And each flower and herb on Earth's dark breast rose from the dreams of its wintry rest.
April ... hath put a spirit of youth in everything.
The beautiful spring came; and when Nature resumes her loveliness, the human soul is apt to revive also.
I think that no matter how old or infirm I may become, I will always plant a large garden in the spring. Who can resist the feelings of hope and joy that one gets from participating in nature's rebirth?
Spring is God's way of saying, 'One more time!'
Hoe while it is spring, and enjoy the best anticipations. It is not much matter if things do not turn out well.
The seasons are what a symphony ought to be: four perfect movements in harmony with each other.
Nothing is so beautiful as spring - when weeds, in wheels, shoot long and lovely and lush; Thrush's eggs look little low heavens, and thrush through the echoing timber does so rinse and wring the ear, it strikes like lightning to hear him sing.
Nothing is so beautiful as spring- When weeds in wheels, shoot long and lovely and lush.
She turned to the sunlight And shook her yellow head, And whispered to her neighbor: "Winter is dead.
You can't see Canada across lake Erie, but you know it's there. It's the same with spring. You have to have faith, especially in Cleveland.
Spring won't let me stay in this house any longer! I must get out and breathe the air deeply again.
Long stormy spring-time, wet contentious April, winter chilling the lap of very May; but at length the season of summer does come.
The world is mud-luscious and puddle-wonderful.
There is no season such delight can bring, as summer, autumn, winter and the spring.
That God once loved a garden we learn in Holy writ. And seeing gardens in the Spring I well can credit it.
In seed time learn, in harvest teach, in winter enjoy.
For winter's rains and ruins are over, And all the season of snows and sins; The days dividing lover and lover, The light that loses, the night that wins; And time remembered isgrief forgotten, And frosts are slain and flowers begotten, And in green underwood and cover Blossom by blossom the spring begins.
If spring came but once a century instead of once a year, or burst forth with the sound of an earthquake and not in silence, what wonder and expectation there would be in all the hearts to behold the miraculous change.
Hee that is in a towne in May loseth his spring.
April is the cruelest month, breeding lilacs out of the dead land, mixing memory and desire, stirring dull roots with spring rain.
April comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.
One swallow does not make a summer, but one skein of geese, cleaving the murk of March thaw, is the Spring.
I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills When all at once I saw a crowd A host of golden daffodils Beside the lake beneath the trees Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
May is a pious fraud of the almanac.
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