Seasons (Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter)

Ô saisons, ô châteaux!

’Tis the last rose of summer

Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies,

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?

Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,

In drear nighted December

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

Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright,

This is the weather the cuckoo likes,

The flowers that bloom in the spring,

Snowy, Flowy, Blowy,

April is the cruellest month, breeding

A cold coming we had of it,

So, while the light fails

No spring, nor summer beauty hath such grace,

Ask me no more where Jove bestows,

The year’s at the spring

Oh, to be in England

The glacier knocks in the cupboard,

I have often thought, says Sir Roger, it happens very well that Christmas should fall out in the Middle of Winter.

Monotony is the law of nature. Look at the monotonous manner in which the sun rises. The monotony of necessary occupation is exhilarating and life-giving.

The seasons are no longer what they once were, But it is the nature of things to be seen only once, As they happen along, bumping into other things, getting along Somehow. That’s where Orpheus made his mistake.

You were saved because you were the first. You were saved because you were the last. Alone. With others. On the right. On the left. Because it was raining. Because of the shade. Because the day was sunny.