Summertime is a season of warmth and light — and sometimes rain and overheating. Many writers have pointed to the joys of summer, and some have used summer as a metaphor for joyful times of life.
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Summer is a period of luxurious growth. To be in harmony with the atmosphere of summer, awaken early in the morning and reach to the sun for nourishment to flourish as the gardens do.
Do what we can, summer will have its flies.
Bees do have a smell, you know, and if they don’t they should, for their feet are dusted with spices from a million flowers.
A thin grey fog hung over the city, and the streets were very cold; for summer was in England.
Why should I be unhappy? Every parcel of my being is in full bloom.
Deep summer is when laziness finds respectability.
Hot July brings cooling showers, Apricots, and gillyflowers.
August rain: the best of the summer gone, and the new fall not yet born. The odd uneven time.
Winter was nothing but a season of snow; spring, allergies; and summer…It was the worst. That was swimsuit season.
In summer, the song sings itself.
Summer’s lease hath all too short a date.
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.
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