Springtime Quotes

“Then came the healing time, hearts started to shine, soul felt so fine, oh what a freeing time it was.”
― Aberjhani, Songs from the Black Skylark zPed Music Player

“In Our Woods, Sometimes a Rare Music

Every spring
I hear the thrush singing
in the glowing woods
he is only passing through.
His voice is deep,
then he lifts it until it seems
to fall from the sky.
I am thrilled.
I am grateful.

Then, by the end of morning,
he's gone, nothing but silence
out of the tree
where he rested for a night.
And this I find acceptable.
Not enough is a poor life.
But too much is, well, too much.
Imagine Verdi or Mahler
every day, all day.
It would exhaust anyone.”
― Mary Oliver, A Thousand Mornings: Poems

“Easter is…
Joining in a birdsong,
Eying an early sunrise,
Smelling yellow daffodils,
Unbolting windows and doors,
Skipping through meadows,
Cuddling newborns,
Hoping, believing,
Reviving spent life,
Inhaling fresh air,
Sprinkling seeds along furrows,
Tracking in the mud.
Easter is the soul’s first taste of spring.”
― Richelle E. Goodrich, Making Wishes: Quotes, Thoughts, & a Little Poetry for Every Day of the Year

“Did I live the spring I’d sought?
It’s true in joy, I walked along,
took part in dance,
and sang the song.
and never tried to bind an hour
to my borrowed garden bower;
nor did I once entreat
a day to slumber at my feet.

Yet days aren’t lulled by lyric song,
like morning birds they pass along,
o’er crests of trees, to none belong;
o’er crests of trees of drying dew,
their larking flight, my hands, eschew
Thus I’ll say it once and true…

From all that I saw,
and everywhere I wandered,
I learned that time cannot be spent,
It only can be squandered.”
― Roman Payne, Rooftop Soliloquy

“The snow has not yet left the earth, but spring is already asking to enter your heart. If you have ever recovered from a serious illness, you will be familiar with the blessed state when you are in a delicious state of anticipation, and are liable to smile without any obvious reason. Evidently that is what nature is experiencing just now. The ground is cold, mud and snow squelches under foot, but how cheerful, gentle and inviting everything is! The air is so clear and transparent that if you were to climb to the top of the pigeon loft or the bell tower, you feel you might actually see the whole universe from end to end. The sun is shining brightly, and its playful, beaming rays are bathing in the puddles along with the sparrows. The river is swelling and darkening; it has already woken up and very soon will begin to roar. The trees are bare, but they are already living and breathing.”
― Anton Chekhov, The Exclamation Mark

“From the end spring new beginnings.”
― Pliny the Elder

“Spring is the fountain of love for thirsty winter”
― Munia Khan

“I don't reproach the spring
for starting up again.
I can't blame it
for doing what it must
year after year.

I know that my grief
will not stop the green.”
― Wisława Szymborska, View with a Grain of Sand: Selected Poems

“POOR MARCH
It is the HOMELIEST month of the year. Most of it is MUD, Every Imaginable Form of MUD, and what isn't MUD in March is ugly late-season SNOW falling onto the ground in filthy muddy heaps that look like PILES of DIRTY LAUNDRY.”
― Vivian Swift, When Wanderers Cease to Roam: A Traveler's Journal of Staying Put

“But why should the daffodils and tulips
Get all the praise and blessings?
My rebirth goes unnoticed- I am worthy
Of smiles and dazzled cries of worship.”
― Lea Malot, Coffins & Rhinestones

“In the suburbs of Delaware, spring meant not young love and damp flowers but an ugly divorce from winter and a second marriage to buxom summer.”
― Andrew Sean Greer, Less

“Spring is magic~ sweet to the senes & easy to celebrate.”
― Susan branch, Vineyard Seasons: More from the Heart of the Home

“The garden was in full verdure, and at Pokrovski nightingales had their homes on all sides in the thick shrubbery. Here and there, large clumps of lilacs raised their heads, enamelled with the white or pale purple of their opening flowers. The leaves in the birch alleys seemed transparent in the rays of the setting sun. The terrace lay in refreshing shade, and the light evening dew was gathering upon the grass.”
― Leo Tolstoy

“Not unique to a single faith, immaculate conception stories appear in both ancient and modern religious traditions. Immaculate conception is the story of a birth that results from intercourse with the Divine. Outside the laws of human life, which require sperm and egg, spiritual conception happens to all of us.”
― Ahriana Platten, Ph.D

“It was late spring and everything was fragrant and in bloom: the dogwood trees, the dogs themselves, their owners. Big Swiss was a showy white flower in puffed sleeves and linen shorts. Greta, who’d peaked weeks ago, was already wilting and losing her petals.”
― Jen Beagin, Big Swiss

“It was a dark, early March afternoon, colder and grayer than usual, even though the crocuses and the tulips were pushing their way through the frozen ground, eager to usher in spring. Yet Old Man Winter refused to relinquish his grasp.”
― Sarah Jio, The Violets of March

“It is a Sunday morning early in the May of 1889. The weather is clear and warm. There has been rain, and the littlest streams are brimming and shining. The spring is at its height. The grass of the yard and the pastures is lush, the green of it so new that it gleams in the sun. The trees are heavily leafed, their new growth still tender, unblemished. And the whole country lies beneath an intricate tapestry of bird song. He is on his way to church - one of the pilgrimages that he occasionally makes in uneasy compensation for the extravagances of Saturday night.”
― Wendell Berry, The Memory of Old Jack

“California loving smooth as the ocean tide
Carefree soaking up your love like sunshine
Crazy for ya feeling like a song with no rhyme
I’m falling for you like sun in the springtime
I’m so glad I found my California loving”
― Marie Helen Abramyan

“Winter has frozen my heart. I can’t wait to drink
a glass of spring.”
― Bhuwan Thapaliya

“Golden daffodils dance in the gentle breeze, birds twitter a happy song and sunshine caresses my face as I taste the delicious sweetness of springtime again.”
― Peggy Toney Horton

“It is the sun shining on the rain and the rain falling on the sunshine, and things pushing up and working under the earth', said Mary. 'If the garden was a secret and we could get into it we could watch the things grow bigger every day, and see how many roses are alive. Don't you see? Oh, don't you see how much nicer it would be if it was a secret?”
― Frances Hodgson Burnett, The Secret Garden

“The forest is quiet but I can still hear the sound of trickling water and the trees whispering to each other in the middle of spring. So there’s no sense of loneliness. With my eyes closed, I take a deep breath of the pure air and feel my soul being cleansed.”
― Bhuwan Thapaliya

“The troutberry trees had already bloomed and gone; on the forest floor, delicate white petals of starflowers and goldthread and Carolina springbeauty sparkled when a stray beam of sunshine caught them. Wild onions were the only plant that had fully leafed out, brilliant bright green under maple and elm and birch and oak whose own leaves were still pregnant thoughts.
All of nature was just waking up, fulling, becoming large and new.”
― Elizabeth Lim, A Twisted Tale Anthology

“Forsythia and cherry blossom were out in a garden, flickering in the light, and there were pots of golden crocuses by doorsteps. Stella saw sticky-looking buds on a horse chestnut and climbing roses were sending out fresh pink shoots. Everything seemed to be resurgent. Burgeoning. Fecund.”
― Caroline Scott, Good Taste

“Winter has frozen
my heart.
I can’t wait to drink
a glass of spring
and get wild.”
― Bhuwan Thapaliya

“Chirp, chirp, chirp, lull, chirp
Crouched, hidden in wildflowers
A grasshopper sings”
― Marie Helen Abramyan

“Thou art the Spring for which I sighed in Winter's cold embraces.”
― Willa Cather, The Garden Lodge

“On account of their puny size and disappointing taste, in France wild pears are known as "poires d'angoisse" or pears of anguish. In Versailles, though, in the kitchen garden, pears are bred for pleasure. Of the five hundred pear trees, the best usually fruit in January--- the royal favorite, a type called "Bon Chrétien d'Hiver," or "Good Christian of Winter." Each pear is very large--- the blossom end engorged, the eye deeply sunk--- whilst the skin is a finely grained pale yellow, with a red blush on the side that has been touched by the sunlight. It is known for its brittle, lightly scented, almost translucent flesh that drips with a sugary juice; that soaks your mouth when your teeth sink into it. The gardener here, Jean-Baptiste de La Quintinie, says that when a pear is ripe its neck yields to the touch and smells slightly of wet roses.
This winter they have not ripened, though, but have frozen to solid gold. Murders of crows sit on the branches of the pear trees, pecking at the rime of them. They have become fairy fruit; those dangling impossibilities. What would you give to taste one?

Spring always comes, though. Is it not magic? The world's deep magic.
March brings the vast respite of thaw, that huge unburdening, that gentling--- all winter's knives and jaws turning soft and blunt; little chunks of ice riding off on their own giddy melt; everything dripping and plipping and making little streams and rivulets; tender pellucid fingers feeling their way towards the sea; all the tiny busywork.
And with the returning sun, too, sex. Tulips, first found as wild flowers in Central Asia--- named for the Persian word "tulipan," for turban--- thrust and bow in the warm soil of Versailles, their variegated "broken" petals licked with carmine flames. The early worm-catchers begin their chorus, skylarks and song thrushes courting at dawn. Catkins dangle like soft, tiny pairs of elven stockings. Fairy-sized wigs appear on the pussy willows. Hawthorn and sloe put on their powder and patches, to catch a bee's eye.”
― Clare Pollard, The Modern Fairies

“The larks are singing!' Each year we make the announcement to one another. The words are sober enough, but what they convey, it is almost impossible to express. It means that our hills and moors are again fit places for new life, for song and work and laughter, all the things we cling to so passionately in the name of living... After the larks come the peewits. They usually arrive at dusk, and far into the darkening we hear their wild crying. Next morning we go out eagerly to watch them flashing and swooping over the bare, brown field. Each day after that we listen for the curlews and, when we see them gliding over the moor in the evening light and catch the sound of their call, which seems to come from some other very far-off place, we know that spring is really with us.”
― Katharine Stewart, A Croft in the Hills

“Spring in the hills would confront the greatest artist with too vast a panorama. I doubt if he could ever capture it. For Spring there is more than colour; it is music and scent. The burns literally hum down the hillside, the trees have rhythm in their shaking. The smell of Spring in the hills is a blending of peaty thickness, bracken-mould, flowers' spicyness, and clean, quick purge of the wind. Down in the hollows anemones, bereft of smell, gleam in pale patches.”
― Jessie Kesson, A Country Dweller's Years: Nature Writings by Jessie Kesson