Dorothy Parker Quotes

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

Spring time is the land awakening.

What potent blood hath modest May.

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

Spring: trees flying up to their birds

Spring is the time of plans and projects.

It seemed to happen in springs, the revealing of things.

Come with me into the woods where spring is advancing, as it does, no matter what, not being singular or particular, but one of the forever gifts, and certainly visible.

The air's warm with hopeful hints of spring in it. Spring would be a good time for an uprising, I think. Everyone feels less vulnerable once winter passes.

April, the angel of the months, the young love of the year.

The air and the earth interpenetrated in the warm gusts of spring; the soil was full of sunlight, and the sunlight full of red dust. The air one breathed was saturated with earthy smells, and the grass under foot had a reflection of the blue sky in it.

In April the sweet showers fall And pierce the drought of March to the root, and all The veins are bathed in liquor of such power As brings about the engendering of the flower.

April comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.

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

Spring is like a perhaps hand

I am thankful that in a troubled world no calamity can prevent the return of spring.

Where are the songs of Spring? Aye, where are they? Think not of them; thou has thy music too.

Harshness vanished. A sudden softness has replaced the meadows' wintry grey. Little rivulets of water changed their singing accents. Tendernesses, hesitantly, reach toward the earth from space, and country lanes are showing these unexpected subtle risings that find expression in the empty trees.

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.

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

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

Short summers lightly have a forward spring.