Inebriate of air am I, And debauchee of dew, Reeling, through endless summer days, From inns of molten blue.
You know what I like about summer days? They're just made for doing things... even if it's nothing. Especially if it's nothing.
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.
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate: Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And summer's lease hath all too short a date . . .
Summer is a promissory note signed in June, its long days spent and gone before you know it, and due to be repaid next January.
But thy eternal summer shall not fade.
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May.
Summer will end soon enough, and childhood as well.
In summer, the song sings itself.
Summer is the time when one sheds one's tensions with one's clothes, and the right kind of day is jeweled balm for the battered spirit. A few of those days and you can become drunk with the belief that all's right with the world.
A life without love is like a year without spring.
The beauty of that June day was almost staggering. After the wet spring, everything that could turn green had outdone itself in greenness and everything that could even dream of blooming or blossoming was in bloom and blossom. The sunlight was a benediction. The breezes were so caressingly soft and intimate on the skin as to be embarrassing.
Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?
Summer afternoon, summer afternoon; to me those have always been the two most beautiful words in the English language.
Tell me, what else should I have done? Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon? Tell me, what is it you plan to do With your one wild and precious life?
January cold and desolate; February dripping wet; March wind ranges; April changes; Birds sing in tune To flowers of May, And sunny June Brings longest day; In scorched July The storm-clouds fly, Lightning-torn; August bears corn, September fruit; In rough October Earth must disrobe her; Stars fall and shoot In keen November; And night is long And cold is strong In bleak December.
So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is. I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass, how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields, which is what I have been doing all day. Tell me, what else should I have done? Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon? Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?
This was one of those perfect New England days in late summer where the spirit of autumn takes a first stealing flight, like a spy, through the ripening country-side, and, with feigned sympathy for those who droop with August heat, puts her cool cloak of bracing air about leaf and flower and human shoulders.
In June as many as a dozen species may burst their buds on a single day. No man can heed all of these anniversaries; no man can ignore all of them.
It was one of those March days when the sun shines hot and the wind blows cold: when it is summer in the light, and winter in the shade.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is. I do know how to pay attention.
The lady doth protest too much, methinks.
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 perfect summer day is when the sun is shining, the breeze is blowing and mojito in your hand.
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