In the depth of winter, I finally learned that within me there lay an invincible summer.
Autumn wins you best by this its mute appeal to sympathy for its decay.
Ah, summer, what power you have to make us suffer and like it.
I know I am but summer to your heart, and not the full four seasons of the year.
My sorrow, when she's here with me, thinks these dark days of autumn rain are beautiful as days can be; she loves the bare, the withered tree; she walks the sodden pasture lane.
March is a tomboy with tousled hair, a mischievous smile, mud on her shoes and a laugh in her voice.
October is the fallen leaf, but it is also a wider horizon more clearly seen. It is the distant hills once more in sight, and the enduring constellations above them once again.
One swallow does not make a summer, but one skein of geese, cleaving the murk of March thaw, is the Spring.
Spring being a tough act to follow, God created June.
No spring, nor summer beauty hath such grace,As I have seen in one autumnal face.
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