Inebriate of air am I, And debauchee of dew, Reeling, through endless summer days, From inns of molten blue.
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.
You know what I like about summer days? They're just made for doing things... even if it's nothing. Especially if it's nothing.
Summer is a promissory note signed in June, its long days spent and gone before you know it, and due to be repaid next January.
But thy eternal summer shall not fade.
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 . . .
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May.
Summer will end soon enough, and childhood as well.
In summer, the song sings itself.
Summer is the time when one sheds one's tensions with one's clothes, and the right kind of day is jeweled balm for the battered spirit. A few of those days and you can become drunk with the belief that all's right with the world.
A life without love is like a year without spring.
The beauty of that June day was almost staggering. After the wet spring, everything that could turn green had outdone itself in greenness and everything that could even dream of blooming or blossoming was in bloom and blossom. The sunlight was a benediction. The breezes were so caressingly soft and intimate on the skin as to be embarrassing.
Summer afternoon, summer afternoon; to me those have always been the two most beautiful words in the English language.
Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?
In winter I get up at night And dress by yellow candle-light. In summer quite the other way I have to go to bed by day.
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.
In June as many as a dozen species may burst their buds on a single day. No man can heed all of these anniversaries; no man can ignore all of them.
Tell me, what else should I have done? Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon? Tell me, what is it you plan to do With your one wild and precious life?
The lady doth protest too much, methinks.
One benefit of Summer was that each day we had more light to read by.
January cold and desolate; February dripping wet; March wind ranges; April changes; Birds sing in tune To flowers of May, And sunny June Brings longest day; In scorched July The storm-clouds fly, Lightning-torn; August bears corn, September fruit; In rough October Earth must disrobe her; Stars fall and shoot In keen November; And night is long And cold is strong In bleak December.
Most days of the year are unremarkable. They begin and they end with no lasting memory made in between. Most days have no impact on the course of a life.
It was one of those March days when the sun shines hot and the wind blows cold: when it is summer in the light, and winter in the shade.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is. I do know how to pay attention.
So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
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