Henry Rollins Quotes

Short summers lightly have a forward spring.

One swallow does not make a summer, but one skein of geese, cleaving the murk of March thaw, is the Spring.

She turned to the sunlight And shook her yellow head, And whispered to her neighbor: "Winter is dead.

Spring is very energising to me.

With the coming of spring, I am calm again.

Spring is a true reconstructionist.

Autumn is a second spring when every leaf is a flower.

I love feeling the crispness of fall and the sensuality of spring.

I love better to count time from spring to spring; it seems to me far more cheerful to reckon the year by blossoms than by blight.

Spring is nature's way of saying, 'Let's party!'

The madness of spring is so enticing. I love it when things are opening up and emerging from the ground. I also love the middle of summer when fruit is bursting forth, but I even love the garden in the winter when everything is resting.

Fresh spring! / The world is only Nine days old - / These fields and mountains!

Spring TO what purpose, April, do you return again? Beauty is not enough. You can no longer quiet me with the redness Of little leaves opening stickily. I know what I know. The sun is hot on my neck as I observe The spikes of the crocus. The smell of the earth is good. It is apparent that there is no death. But what does that signify? Not only under ground are the brains of men Eaten by maggots. Life in itself Is nothing, An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs. It is not enough that yearly, down this hill, April Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.

When the leaves of the strongest tree fall, spring is here.

Spring time is the land awakening.

Now Spring returns; but not to me returns.

The hopeless hope is one of the early harbingers of spring, bespeaking an innocent belief that the world might right its wrongs and reverse its curses simply because the trees are coming into leaf.

Now I realize that the trees blossom in Spring and bear fruit in Summer without seeking praise; and they drop their leaves in Autumn and become naked in Winter without fearing blame.

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 . . .

Men in their generations are like the leaves of the trees. The wind blows and one year's leaves are scattered on the ground; but the trees burst into bud and put on fresh ones when the spring comes round.

Never yet was a springtime, when the buds forgot to bloom.

Spring flies, and with it all the train it leads; and flowers, in fading, leave us but their seeds.