Dorothy Parker Quotes

Spring, summer, and fall fill us with hope; winter alone reminds us of the human condition.

Winter, spring, summer, or fall, all you gotta do is call, and I'll be there, 'cause you've got a friend.

Short summers lightly have a forward spring.

I love going to London for a couple of days but I need to be in the country. I like the silence, the smell and the seasonal changes, especially in spring and summer. I really feel that I belong there.

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

I get depressed when the sun is clouded over. It affects me.

The sun was warm but the wind was chill. You know how it is with an April day.

Spring never is spring unless it comes too soon.

I did a lot of research on a couple different things. One was, how do people handle hating themselves and hating others? And hatred is a secondary emotion, I think; it always springs from something else ... usually fear, that's probably what it is. So I looked a lot at that.

Those who hate rain hate life.

Color is, in brief terms, the type of love. Hence it is especially connected with the blossoming of the earth; and again, with its fruits; also, with the spring and fall of the leaf, and with the morning and evening of the day, in order to show the waiting of love about the birth and death of man.

Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May.

Summer treads on heels of spring.

All human life has its seasons and cycles, and no one's personal chaos can be permanent. Winter, after all, gives way to spring and summer, though sometimes when branches stay dark and the earth cracks with ice, one thinks they will never come, that spring, and that summer, but they do, and always.

Clouds suit my mood just fine.

Life is the blossoming of flowers in the spring, the ripening of fruit in the fall, the rhythm of the earth and of nature. Life is the cry of cicadas signalling the end of summer, migratory birds winging south in a transparent autumn sky, fish frolicking in a stream. Life is the joy beautiful music installs in us, the thrilling sight of a mountain peak reddened by the rising sun, the myriad combinations and permutations of visible and invisible phenomena. Life is all things.

I've never really thought about it before, but it's a miracle how many kinds of light there are in the world, how many skies: the pale brightness of spring, when it feels like the hole world's blushing; the lush, bright boldness of a July noon; purple storm skies and a green queasiness just before lightning strikes and crazy multicolored sunsets that look like someone's acid trip.

All wines are by their very nature full of reminiscence, the golden tears and red blood of summers that are gone.

Love and hate are cruel, only liking is kind

There it is, fog, atmospheric moisture still uncertain in destination, not quite weather and not altogether mood, yet partaking of both.

nights and days came and passed and summer and winter and the sun and the wind and the rain. and it was good to be a little island a part of the world and a world of its own all surrounded by the bright blue sea.

WEATHERS This is the weather the cuckoo likes, And so do I; When showers betumble the chestnut spikes, And nestlings fly; And the little brown nightingale bills his best, And they sit outside at 'The Traveller's Rest,' And maids come forth sprig-muslin drest, And citizens dream of the south and west, And so do I. This is the weather the shepherd shuns, And so do I; When beeches drip in browns and duns, And thresh and ply; And hill-hid tides throb, throe on throe, And meadow rivulets overflow, And drops on gate bars hang in a row, And rooks in families homeward go, And so do I.