Sometimes I wonder what I'm a-gonna do 'Cause there ain't no cure for the summertime blues.
One summer night, out on a flat headland, all but surrounded by the waters of the bay, the horizons were remote and distant rims on the edge of space.
As Summer into Autumn slips And yet we sooner say "The Summer" than "the Autumn," lest We turn the sun away, And almost count it an Affront The presence to concede Of one however lovely, not The one that we have loved - So we evade the charge of Years On one attempting shy The Circumvention of the Shaft Of Life's Declivity.
At about the age of ten, during a late summer visit to Sears to buy school clothes, I became aware of the concept of candy by the pound.
Summer-induced stupidity. That was the diagnosis.
Oh, father's gone to market-town, he was up before the day, And Jamie's after robins, and the man is making hay, And whistling down the hollow goes the boy that minds the mill, While mother from the kitchen door is calling with a will, "Polly!-Polly!- The cows are in the corn! Oh, where's Polly?"
A thin grey fog hung over the city, and the streets were very cold; for summer was in England.
You're off to Great Places! Today is your day! Your mountain is waiting, So... get on your way!
O for a lodge in a garden of cucumbers! O for an iceberg or two at control! O for a vale that at midday the dew cumbers! O for a pleasure trip up to the pole!
Very hot and still the air was, Very smooth the gliding river, Motionless the sleeping shadows.
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May.
There's no such thing as bad weather, only inappropriate clothing
But see, the shepherds shun the noonday heat, The lowing herds to murmuring brooks retreat, To closer shades the panting flocks remove; Ye gods! And is there no relief for love?
In lang, lang days o' simmer, When the clear and cloudless sky Refuses ae weep drap o' rain To Nature parched and dry, The genial night, wi' balmy breath, Gars verdue, spring anew, An' ilka blade o' grass Keps its ain drap o' dew.
All labours draw hame at even, And can to others say, "Thanks to the gracious God of heaven, Whilk sent this summer day."
Now simmer blinks on flowery braes, And o'er the crystal streamlet plays.
Summer, as my friend Coleridge waggishly writes, has set in with its usual severity.
I know a bank where the wild thyme blows, Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows, Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine, With sweet musk-roses and with eglantine.
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.
Let your children be as so many flowers, borrowed from God. If the flowers die or wither, thank God for a summer loan of them.
Lord, what fools these mortals be!
The tendinous part of the mind, so to speak, is more developed in winter; the fleshy, in summer. I should say winter had given the bone and sinew to literature, summer the tissues and the blood.
It's a cruel season that makes you get ready for bed while it's light out.
He stood beside a cottage lone And listened to a lute, One summer's eve, when the breeze was gone, And the nightingale was mute.
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