Thomas Gray Quotes

When the groundhog casts his shadow And the small birds sing And the pussywillows happen And the sun shines warm And when the peepers peep Then it is Spring

The weather here is gorgeous. It's mild and feels like it's in the eighties. The hot dog vendors got confused because of the weather and thought it was spring, so they accidentally changed the hot dog water in their carts.

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

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

What potent blood hath modest May.

The early bees are assaulting and fumbling the flowers: They call it 'easing the Spring.'

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 is the time of plans and projects.

[Insects] are not only cold-blooded, and green- and yellow-blooded, but are also cased in a clacking horn. They have rigid eyes and brains strung down their backs. But they make up the bulk of our comrades-at-life, so I look to them for a glimmer of companionship.

All things seem possible in May.

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

Spring, / you are a pinking shears: you cut / fresh edges on the world.

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

They were pleasant spring days, in which the winter of man's discontent was thawing as well as the earth, and the life that had lain torpid began to stretch itself.

All the butterflies and cockyolybirds would fly past me.

Spring's first conviction is a wealth beyond its whole experience.

At the end of the season of sorrows comes the time of rejoicing. Spring, like a well-oiled clock, noiselessly indicates this time.

The first sparrow of spring! The year beginning with younger hope than ever!

Large flocks of butterflies, all kinds of happy insects, seem to be in a perfect fever of joy and sportive gladness.

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

Butterflies...flowers that fly and all but sing.