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 . . .
Summer will end soon enough, and childhood as well.
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May.
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?
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 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.
Summer's lease hath all too short a date.
Ah, summer, what power you have to make us suffer and like it.
What is one to say about June, the time of perfect young summer, the fulfillment of the promise of the earlier months, and with as yet no sign to remind one that its fresh young beauty will ever fade.
O summer day beside the joyous sea! O summer day so wonderful and white, So full of gladness and so full of pain! Forever and forever shalt thou be To some the gravestone of a dead delight, To some the landmark of a new domain.
The summer night is like a perfection of thought.
A perfect summer day is when the sun is shining, the breeze is blowing and mojito in your hand.
One benefit of Summer was that each day we had more light to read by.
You can't ascribe great cosmic significance to a simple earthly event. Coincidence, that's all anything ever is, nothing more than coincidence...
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.
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