Summer afternoon, summer afternoon; to me those have always been the two most beautiful words in the English language.
A perfect summer day is when the sun is shining, the breeze is blowing and mojito in your hand.
A life without love is like a year without spring.
If a June night could talk, it would probably boast it invented romance.
The summer night is like a perfection of thought.
That familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer.
Love is to the heart what the summer is to the farmer's year. It brings to harvest all the loveliest flowers of the soul.
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.
The first week of August hangs at the very top of summer, the top of the live-long year, like the highest seat of a Ferris wheel when it pauses in its turning. The weeks that come before are only a climb from balmy spring, and those that follow a drop to the chill of autumn, but the first week of August is motionless, and hot. It is curiously silent, too, with blank white dawns and glaring noons, and sunsets smeared with too much color.
Green was the silence, wet was the light, the month of June trembled like a butterfly.
Then followed that beautiful season... Summer.... Filled was the air with a dreamy and magical light; and the landscape Lay as if new created in all the freshness of childhood.
The first week of August hangs at the very top of summer, the top of the live-long year, like the highest seat of a Ferris wheel when it pauses in its turning.
Spring passes and one remembers one's innocence.
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.
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.
What good is the warmth of summer, without the cold of winter to give it sweetness.
People don't notice whether it's winter or summer when they're happy.
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.
A man says a lot of things in summer he doesn't mean in winter.
In summer, the song sings itself.
or simply:
