Seasons (Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter)

When icicles hang by the wall, And Dick the shepherd blows his nail, And Tom bears logs into the hall, And milk comes frozen home in pail, When blood is nipp’d and ways be foul, Then nightly sings the staring owl, Tu-who; Tu-whit, tu-who—a merry note, While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

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!

At Christmas I no more desire a rose Than wish a snow in May’s newfangled mirth; But like of each thing that in season grows.

O! how this spring of love resembleth The uncertain glory of an April day!

Now is the winter of our discontent Made glorious summer by this sun of York.

The gaudy, blabbing, and remorseful day Is crept into the bosom of the sea.

Now ’tis the spring, and weeds are shallow-rooted; Suffer them now and they’ll o’ergrow the garden.

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.

Expect Saint Martin’s summer, halcyon days.

May, with alle thy floures and thy grene, Welcome be thou, faire, fresshe May.

For May wol have no slogardie anyght. The sesoun priketh every gentil herte, And maketh hym out of his slep to sterte.

He was as fressh as is the month of May.

Whan that Aprille with his shoures soote The droghte of March hath perced to the roote.

Whan that the month of May Is comen, and that I here the foules synge, And that the floures gynnen for to sprynge, Farewel my bok, and my devocioun!

Lord, this is an huge rayn! This were a weder for to slepen inne!

O wynd, o wynd, the weder gynneth clere.

Now welcome, somer, with thy sonne softe, That hast this wintres wedres overshake.

Excess generally causes reaction, and produces a change in the opposite direction, whether it be in the seasons, or in individuals, or in governments.

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.

There is a sumptuous variety about the New England weather... In the spring I have counted one hundred and twenty-six different kinds of weather inside of four and twenty hours.

It's spring fever. That is what the name of it is. And when you've got it, you want—oh, you don't quite know what it is you do want, but it just fairly makes your heart ache, you want it so!

In the Spring, I have counted 136 different kinds of weather inside of 24 hours.

If you don't like the weather in New England now, just wait a few minutes .