Helen Hayes Quotes

The streams, rejoiced that winter's work is done, Talk of to-morrow's cowslips as they run.

When I pass a flowering zucchini plant in a garden, my heart skips a beat.

I think March and fall are natural seasons for me to feel invigorated.

Again the blackbirds sings; the streams Wake, laughing, from their winter dreams, And tremble in the April showers The tassels of the maple flowers.

There was only - spring itself, the throb of it, the light restlessness, the vital essence of it everywhere; in the sky, in the swift clouds, in the pale sunshine, and in the warm high wind - rising suddenly, sinking suddenly, impulsive ... If I had been tossed down blindfold on that red prairie, I should have known that it was spring.

I don't have a gardener, because I enjoy pulling weeds. It's hard to explain, but there is something fulfilling about pulling out a weed and knowing that you got all the roots.

I was never any good at remembering dates, but now I hardly have to. When the first bulb catalogs get delivered and the hens start laying again, that's all the notice I'll need to know that winter has passed.

Usually the thing that signifies that I'm done with the winter and all that is that I start skateboarding.

The snow has at last melted, the fields regain their herbage, and the trees their leaves.

April comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.

It was such a pleasure to sink one's hands into the warm earth, to feel at one's fingertips the possibilities of the new season.

The ghostly winter silence had given way to the great spring murmur of awakening life.

It was one of those winter days that suddenly dream of spring, when the sky is blue and soft and clear, and the wind has dropped its voice and whispers instead of screaming, and the sun is out and the trees look surprised, and over everything there is the faintest, palest tint of green.

Spring time is the land awakening.

Blow trumpet, for the world is white with May.

There's so much spring in the air- there's so much lazy sweetness in your heart.

Everything is new in the spring. Springs themselves are always so new, too. No spring is ever just like any other spring. It always has something of its own to be its own peculiar sweetness.

For, as when the red-cheeked, dancing girls, April and May, trip home to the wintry, misanthropic woods; even the barest, ruggedest, most thunder-cloven old oak will at least send forth some few green sprouts, to welcome such glad-hearted visitants . . .

Spring. March fans it, April christens it, and May puts on its jacket and trousers.

The spring's already at the gate With looks my care beguiling; The country round appeareth straight A flower-garden smiling.