There ought to be gardens for all months in the year,
in which, severally, things of beauty may be then in season.
Sir Francis Bacon
Love is to the heart what the summer is to the farmer’s year – it brings to harvest all the loveliest flowers of the soul.
Then followed that beautiful season… Summer….
Filled was the air with a dreamy and magical light; and the landscape
Lay as if new created in all the freshness of childhood.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Summer is the time when one sheds one’s tensions with one’s clothes, and the right kind of day is jeweled balm for the battered spirit. A few of those days and you can become drunk with the belief that all’s right with the world.
Ada Louise Huxtable
I walk without flinching through the burning cathedral of the summer. My bank of wild grass is majestic and full of music. It is a fire that solitude presses against my lips.
Violette Leduc, Mad in Pursuit
Ah, summer, what power you have to make us suffer and like it.
A perfect summer day is when the sun is shining, the breeze is blowing, the birds are singing, and the lawn mower is broken.
Tis an old dial with many a stain;
In summer crowned with drifting orchard bloom,
Tricked in the autumn with the yellow rain,
And white in winter like a marble tomb.
And round about its gray, time-eaten brow
Lean letters speak – a worn and shattered row:
I am a Shade: A Shadowe too arte thou:
I marke the Time: saye, Gossip, dost thou soe?
Austin Dobson, The Sundial, 1900
This was one of those perfect New England days in late summer where the spirit of autumn takes a
first stealing flight, like a spy, through the ripening country-side, and, with feigned sympathy for
those who droop with August heat, puts her cool cloak of bracing air about leaf and
flower and human shoulders.
Sarah Orne Jewett, The Courting of Sister Wisby, 1887
It was no summer progress. A cold coming they had of it, at this time of the year; just, the worst time of the year, to take a journey, and specially a long journey, in. The ways deep, the weather sharp, the days short, the sun farthest off in solstitio brumali, the very dead of Winter.
Bishop Lancelot Andrewes 1555-1626 ‘Of the Nativity’ (1622) Sermon 15.
People don’t notice whether it’s winter or summer when they’re happy. If I lived in Moscow I don’t think I’d care what the weather was like.
Anton Chekhov 1860-1904 ‘The Three Sisters’ (1901) act 2