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In the Spring, I have counted 136 different kinds of weather inside of 24 hours. Mark Twain
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Is it so small a thing To have enjoyed the sun, To have lived light in the spring, To have loved, to have thought, to have done.- Matthew Arnold
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It is a natural resurrection, an experience of immortality.
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It is dry, hazy June weather. We are more of the earth, farther from heaven these days.- Henry David Thoreau
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It is not merely the multiplicity of tints, the gladness of tone, or the balminess of the air which delight in the spring; it is the still consecrated spirit of hope, the prophecy of happy days yet to come; the endless variety of nature, with presentiments of eternal flowers which never shall fade, and sympathy with the blessedness of the ever-developing world.
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It is not the variegated colors, the cheerful sounds, and the warm breezes which enliven us so much in spring; it is the quiet prophetic spirit of endless hope, a presentiment of many happy days, the anticipation of higher everlasting blossoms and fruits, and the secret sympathy with the world that is developing itself.
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It is the season now to go About the country high and low, Among the lilacs hand in hand, And two by two in fairyland.
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It was in the prime Of the sweet spring-time, In the linnet’s throat Trembled the love-note, And the love-stirred air Thrilled the blossoms there. Little shadows danced, Each a tiny elf, Happy in large light And the thinnest self.
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Let us fill urns with rose-leaves in our May, and hive the thrifty sweetness for December!
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Listen, can you hear it? Spring”s sweet cantata. The strains of grass pushing through the snow. The song of buds swelling on the vine. The tender timpani of a baby robin”s heart. Spring.
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Lo! where the rosy bosom’d Hours Fair Venus’ train appear, Disclose the long-expecting flowers, And wake the purple year.
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Loveliest of trees, the cherry now Is hung with bloom along the bough.
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Now Nature hangs her mantle green On every blooming tree, And spreads her sheets o’ daisies white Out o’er the grassy lea.
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Now spring returns; but not to me returns The vernal joy my better years have known; Dim in my breast life’s dying taper burns, And all the joys of life with health have flown.
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Now the hedged meads renew Rustic odor, smiling hue, And the clean air shines and twinkles as the world goes wheeling through; And my heart springs up anew, Bright and confident and true. And my old love come to meet me in the dawning and the dew.
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O fresh-lit dawn! immortal life! O Earth’s betrothal, sweet and true!
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O tender time that love thinks long to see, Sweet foot of Spring that with her footfall sows Late snow-like flowery leavings of the snows, Be not too long irresolute to be; O mother-month, where have they hidden thee?
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O, how this spring of love resembleth. The uncertain glory of an April day!- William Shakespeare
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On many a green branch swinging, Little birdlets singing Warble sweet notes in the air. Flowers fair There I found. Green spread the meadow all around.
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Once more the Heavenly Power Makes all things new, And domes the red-ploughed hills With loving blue; The blackbirds have their wills, The throstles too.
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