Seasons (Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter)

Summer afternoon—summer afternoon … the two most beautiful words in the English language.

Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies,

April hath put a spirit of youth in every thing.

For one swallow does not make a summer, nor does one day; and so too one day, or a short time, does not make a man blessed and happy.

O wynd, o wynd, the weder gynneth clere.

Hot lavender, mints, savory, marjoram, The marigold, that goes to bed wi’ the sun, And with him rises weeping: these are flowers Of middle summer, and I think they are given To men of middle age.

Daffodils, That come before the swallow dares, and take The winds of March with beauty.

’Tis a month before the month of May, And the Spring comes slowly up this way.

What is the late November doing With the disturbance of the spring.

Ask me no more where Jove bestows,

No spring, nor summer beauty hath such grace,

This is the weather the cuckoo likes,

When daisies pied and violets blue, And lady-smocks all silver-white, And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue Do paint the meadows with delight, The cuckoo then, on every tree, Mocks married men; for thus sings he, Cuckoo; Cuckoo, cuckoo: O word of fear, Unpleasing to a married ear!

Sometimes hath the brightest day a cloud; And after summer evermore succeeds Barren winter, with his wrathful nipping cold: So cares and joys abound, as seasons fleet.

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate: Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And summer’s lease hath all too short a date.

A sad tale’s best for winter. I have one of sprites and goblins.

Then comes in the sweet o’ the year.

Thick as autumnal leaves that strow the brooks In Vallombrosa.

While the cock with lively din Scatters the rear of darkness thin, And to the stack, or the barn door, Stoutly struts his dames before, Oft list’ning how the hounds and horn Cheerly rouse the slumb’ring morn.

With thee conversing I forget all time, All seasons, and their change; all please alike. Sweet is the breath of morn, her rising sweet, With charm of earliest birds.

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun.

This is the weather the shepherd shuns,

Oh, to be in England

’Tis the last rose of summer