There's no such thing as bad weather, just soft people.
I know I am but summer to your heart, and not the full four seasons of the year.
Summer's lease hath all too short a date.
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May.
Rest is not idleness, and to lie sometimes on the grass under trees on a summer's day, listening to the murmur of the water, or watching the clouds float across the sky, is by no means a waste of time.
There is no such thing as bad weather, only different kinds of good weather.
Now is the winter of our discontent.
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.
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.
A man says a lot of things in summer he doesn't mean in winter.
Green was the silence, wet was the light, the month of June trembled like a butterfly.
The end-of-summer winds make people restless.
So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
What good is the warmth of summer, without the cold of winter to give it sweetness.
Short summers lightly have a forward spring.
The lime trees were in bloom. But in the early morning only a faint fragrance drifted through the garden, an airy message, an aromatic echo of the dreams during the short summer night.
In the short summer night she learned so much. She would have thought a woman would have died of shame... She felt, now, she had come to the real bedrock of her nature, and was essentially shameless. She was her sensual self, naked an unashamed. She felt a triumph, almost a vainglory. So! That was how it was! That was life! That was how onself really was! There was nothing left to disguise or be ashamed of. She shared her ultimate nakedness with a man, another being.
We aged a hundred years, and this happened in a single hour: the short summer had already died, the body of the ploughed plains smoked.
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