Lucy Maud Montgomery Quotes

Oh, to be in England now that April's there.

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

April comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.

It is autumn; not without But within me is the cold. Youth and spring are all about; It is I that have grown old.

In our hearts those of us who know anything worth knowing know that in March a new year begins, and if we plan any new leaves, it will be when the rest of Nature is planning them too.

Spring, the sweet Spring, is the year's pleasant king

Spring is the time of plans and projects.

Aprils have never meant much to me, autumns seem that season of beginning, spring.

It's a warm wind, the west wind, full of birds' cries; I never hear the west wind but tears are in my eyes. For it comes from the west lands, the old brown hills, And April's in the West wind, and daffodils.

Others said May was best, that sweet green time when lilacs bloomed and gardens along Main Street were filled with sugary pink peonies and Dutch tulips.

Baseball begins in the spring, the season of new life. Football begins in the fall, when everything's dying.

All things seem possible in May.

Hee that is in a towne in May loseth his spring.

Autumn is a season followed immediately by looking forward to spring.

It’s spring! Farewell To chills and colds! The blushing, girlish World unfolds Each flower, leaf And blade of sod— Small letters sent To her from God.

The first wild-flower of the year is like land after sea.

Mountain-rose petals Falling, falling, falling now... Waterfall music

February. Get ink, shed tears. Write of it, sob your heart out, sing, While torrential slush that roars Burns in the blackness of the spring. Go hire a buggy. For six grivnas, Race through the noice of bells and wheels To where the ink and all you grieving Are muffled when the rainshower falls. To where, like pears burnt black as charcoal, A myriad rooks, plucked from the trees, Fall down into the puddles, hurl Dry sadness deep into the eyes. Below, the wet black earth shows through, With sudden cries the wind is pitted, The more haphazard, the more true The poetry that sobs its heart out.

Budapest in late May is a city of lilacs. The sweet, languid, rather sleepy smell of lilacs wafts everywhere. And it is a city of lovers, many of them quite middle-aged. Walking with their arms around each other, embracing and kissing on park benches. A sensuousness very much bound up (it seems to me) with the heady ubiquitous smell of lilacs.