The ghostly winter silence had given way to the great spring murmur of awakening life.
Summer treads on heels of spring.
I love borders. August is the border between summer and autumn; it is the most beautiful month I know.
Pale in her fading bowers the Summer stands, Like a new Niobe with claspèd hands, Silent above the flowers, her children lost, Slain by the arrows of the early Frost.
It was autumn, the springtime of death.
Autumn is leaving its mellowness behind for its spiky, rotted stage. Don't remember summer even saying goodbye.
It is a sad moment when the first phlox appears. It is the amber light indicating the end of the great burst of early summer and suggesting that we must now start looking forward to autumn. Not that I have any objection to autumn as a season, full of its own beauty; but I just cannot bear to see another summer go, and I recoil from what the first hint of autumn means.
Old April wanes, and her last dewy morn Her death-bed steeps in tears; to hail the May New blooming blossoms neath the sun are born, And all poor April's charms are swept away.
Short summers lightly have a forward spring.
Autumn is full of leave-taking. In September the swallows are chattering of destination and departure like a crowd of tourists.
Autumn is a season followed immediately by looking forward to spring.
Well-apparel'd April on the heel Of limping Winter treads.
When the hounds of Spring are on winter's traces, The mother of months in meadow or plain Fills the shadows and windy places With lisp of leaves and ripple of rain.
It follows the seasons, beginning each year with the fond expectancy of springtime and ending with the hard facts of autumn.
Leaves are verbs that conjugate the seasons.
With rushing winds and gloomy skies The dark and stubborn Winter dies: Far-off, unseen, Spring faintly cries, Bidding her earliest child arise; March!
The Summer had died peacefully in its sleep, and Autumn, as soft-spoken executrix, was locking life up safely until Spring came to claim it.
Oh, Spring is surely coming, Her couriers fill the air; Each morn are new arrivals, Each night her ways prepare; I scent her fragrant garments, Her foot is on the stair.
August has passed, and yet summer continues by force to grow days. They sprout secretly between the chapters of the year, covertly included between its pages.
If we had no winter, the spring would not be so pleasant.
The beauty of winter is that it makes you appreciate spring.
Spring ... made fair false promises which summer was called upon to keep.
How bravely Autumn paints upon the sky The gorgeous fame of Summer which is fled!
