Summer afternoon -- summer afternoon; to me those have always been the two most beautiful words in the English language.
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It is art that makes life, makes interest, makes importance and I know of no substitute whatever for the force and beauty of its process.
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Live in each season as it passes; breathe the air, drink the drink, taste the fruit, and resign yourself to the influences of each. Let them be your only diet drink and botanical medicines.
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January gray is here, like a sexton by her grave; February bears the bier, march with grief doth howl and rave, and April weeps -- but, O ye hours! Follow with May's fairest flowers.
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April comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.
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To be interested in the changing seasons is, in this middling zone, a happier state of mind than to be hopelessly in love with spring.
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When chill November's surly blast make fields and forest bare.
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Autumn arrives in early morning, but spring at the close of a winter day.
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Spring is not the best of seasons. Cold and flu are two good reasons; wind and rain and other sorrow, warm today and cold tomorrow. Whoever said Spring was romantic? The word that best applies is frantic!
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Indoors or out, no one relaxes in March, that month of wind and taxes, the wind will presently disappear, the taxes last us all the year.
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He is outside of everything, and alien everywhere. He is an aesthetic solitary. His beautiful, light imagination is the wing that on the autumn evening just brushes the dusky window.
