Full of Sunshine: Book Quotes about Summer.
It’s almost the heyday of summer, the season of sunshine and blossom. Being bright, diverse and full of everything, it gets thousands of faces in the books by different authors. So, today I want to keep a couple of bookish sunrays here: meet the collection of inspiring quotes about summer – thoughts and feelings covered into words…
It’s almost the heyday of summer, the season of sunshine and blossom. Being bright, diverse and full of everything, it gets thousands of faces in the books by different authors. So, today I want to keep a couple of bookish sunrays here: meet the collection of inspiring quotes about summer – thoughts and feelings covered into words by talented writers. Feel the sunshine!
Green was the silence, wet was the light,
the month of June trembled like a butterfly.
And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees, just as things grow in fast movies, I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer.
(F. Scott Fitzgerald)
In the midst of winter, I found there was, within me, an invincible summer.
Bees do have a smell, you know, and if they don’t they should, for their feet are dusted with spices from a million flowers.
One summer morning at sunrise a long time ago
I met a little girl with a book under her arm.
I asked her why she was out so early and
she answered that there were too many books and
far too little time. And there she was absolutely right.
If you want to imagine the future, imagine a boy and his dog and his friends. And a summer that never ends.
Rest is not idleness, and to lie sometimes on the grass under trees on a summer’s day, listening to the murmur of the water, or watching the clouds float across the sky, is by no means a waste of time.
It was June, and the world smelled of roses. The sunshine was like powdered gold over the grassy hillside.
(Maud Hart Lovelace)
The castle grounds were gleaming in the sunlight as though freshly painted; the cloudless sky smiled at itself in the smoothly sparkling lake, the satin-green lawns rippled occasionally in a gentle breeze: June had arrived.
Hold summer in your hand, pour summer in a glass, a tiny glass of course, the smallest tingling sip for children; change the season in your veins by raising glass to lip and tilting summer in.
I’d give all the wealth that years have piled,
the slow result of life’s decay,
To be once more a little child
for one bright summer day.
Come with me,’ Mom says.
To the library.
Books and summertime
Summer was here again. Summer, summer, summer. I loved and hated summers. Summers had a logic all their own and they always brought something out in me. Summer was supposed to be about freedom and youth and no school and possibilities and adventure and exploration. Summer was a book of hope. That’s why I loved and hated summers. Because they made me want to believe.
(Benjamin Alire Sáenz)
I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.
A tree whose hungry mouth is pressed
Against the earth’s sweet flowing breast;
A tree that looks at God all day
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;
A tree that may in summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;
Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.
Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.
The first week of August hangs at the very top of summer, the top of the live-long year, like the highest seat of a Ferris wheel when it pauses in its turning. The weeks that come before are only a climb from balmy spring, and those that follow a drop to the chill of autumn, but the first week of August is motionless, and hot. It is curiously silent, too, with blank white dawns and glaring noons, and sunsets smeared with too much color.
I know I am but summer to your heart,
And not the full four seasons of the year;
And you must welcome from another part
Such noble moods as are not mine, my dear.
No gracious weight of golden fruits to sell
Have I, nor any wise and wintry thing;
And I have loved you all too long and well
To carry still the high sweet breast of Spring.
Wherefore I say: O love, as summer goes,
I must be gone, steal forth with silent drums,
That you may hail anew the bird and rose
When I come back to you, as summer comes.
Else will you seek, at some not distant time,
Even your summer in another clime.
(Edna St. Vincent Millay)
I wish we could spend July by the sea, browning ourselves and feeling water-weighted hair flow behind us from a dive. I wish our gravest concerns were the summer gnats. I wish we were hungry for hot dogs and dopes, and it would be nice to smell the starch of summer linens and the faint odor of talc in blistering summer bath houses … We could lie in long citoneuse beams of the five o’clock sun on the plage at Juan-les-Pins and hear the sound of the drum and piano being scooped out to sea by the waves.
I guess I felt attached to my weakness. My pain and suffering too. Summer light, the smell of a breeze, the sound of cicadas – if I like these things, why should I apologize?
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