August, the summer's last messenger of misery, is a hollow actor.
August rain: the best of the summer gone, and the new fall not yet born. The odd uneven time.
August creates as she slumbers, replete and satisfied.
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 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. Often at night there is lightning, but it quivers all alone. There is no thunder, no relieving rain. These are strange and breathless days, the dog days, when people are led to do things they are sure to be sorry for.
Remember to be gentle with yourself and others. We are all children of chance, and none can say while some fields will blossom and others lay brown beneath the August sun. Care for those around you. Look past your differences. Their dreams are no less than yours, their choices in life no more easily made. And give. Give in any way you can, of whatever you possess. To give is to love. To withhold is to wither. Care less for your harvest than how is shared, and your life will have meaning and your heart will have peace.
August is ripening grain in the fields blowing hot and sunny, the scent of tree-ripened peaches, of hot buttered sweet corn on the cob. Vivid dahlias fling huge tousled blossoms through gardens and joe-pye-weed dusts the meadow purple.
Breathe the sweetness that hovers in August.
When summer gathers up her robes of glory, and like a dream of beauty glides away.
Everything good, everything magical happens between the months of June and August. Winters are simply a time to count the weeks until the next summer
In August, the large masses of berries, which, when in flower, had attracted many wild bees, gradually assumed their bright velvety crimson hue, and by their weight again bent down and broke their tender limbs.
I love borders. August is the border between summer and autumn; it is the most beautiful month I know. Twilight is the border between day and night, and the shore is the border between sea and land. The border is longing: when both have fallen in love but still haven't said anything. The border is to be on the way. It is the way that is the most important thing.
Remember to be gentle with yourself and others. We are all children of chance and none can say why some fields will blossom while others lay brown beneath the August sun.
What dreadful hot weather we have! It keeps one in a continual state of inelegance.
A single sunbeam is enough to drive away many shadows.
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
When in still air and still in summertime A leaf has had enough of this, it seems To make up its mind to go; fine as a sage Its drifting in detachment down the road.
I saw the spiders marching through the air, Swimming from tree to tree that mildewed day In latter August when the hay Came creaking to the barn.
Many people I know in Los Angeles believe that the Sixties ended abruptly on August 9, 1969, ended at the exact moment when word of the murders on Cielo Drive traveled like brushfire through the community, and in a sense this is true. The tension broke that day. The paranoia was fulfilled.
Not wholly in the busy world, nor quite Beyond it, blooms the garden that I love. News from the humming city comes to it It sound of funeral or of marriage bells.
The way to ensure summer in England is to have it framed and glazed in a comfortable room.
From the great trees the locusts cry In quavering ecstatic duo-a boy Shouts a wild call-a mourning dove In the blue distance sobs-the wind Wanders by, heavy with odors Of corn and wheat and melon vines; The trees tremble with delirious joy as the breeze Greets them, one by one-now the oak Now the great sycamore, now the elm.
The band's never taken a year off. Last August we decided to take one, and three months in I was bored to tears.
The foliage has been losing its freshness through the month of August, and here and there a yellow leaf shows itself like the first gray hair amidst the locks of a beauty who has seen one season too many.
August in sub-Saharan Los Angeles is one of the great and awful tests of one's endurance, sanity and stamina.
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