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Sows: Quotations from Cyclopedia of Practical Quotations

Late snow-like flowery leavings of the snows, Be not too long irresolute to be; O mother-month, where have they hidden thee?— SWINBURNE — A Vision of Spring in

Winter. Dip down upon the northern shore, O sweet new year, delaying long; Thou doest expectant nature wrong, Delaying long; delay no more.— TENNYSON — In Memoriam, 82.

In the Spring a livelier iris changes on the burnish'd dove; In the Spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love.— TENNYSON — Locksley Hall. St. 9.

Once more the Heavenly Power Makes all things new, And domes the red-plough'd hills With loving blue; The blackbirds have their wills, The throstles too.— TENNYSON — Early Spring.

The bee buzz'd up in the heat, "I am faint for your honey, my sweet." The flower said, "Take it, my dear, For now is the Spring of the year. So come, come!" "Hum!" And the bee buzz'd down from the heat.— TENNYSON — The Forester. Act IV. Sc. 1.

SEASONS (THE)-SUMMER. 541 The boyhood of the year.— TENNYSON — Sir Launcelot and Queen Guinevere. St. 3.

Come, gentle Spring; ethereal Mildness, come!— THOMSON — Seasons. Spring. L. 1.

Fair-handed Spring unbosoms every grace: Throws out the snowdrop and the crocus first.— THOMSON — Seasons. Spring. L. 527.

The Clouds consign their treasures to the fields, And, softly shaking on the dimpled pool, Prelusive drops, let all their moisture flow In large effusion, o'er the freshen'd world.— THOMSON — Seasons. Spring. L. 173.

'Tis spring-time on the eastern hills! Like torrents gush the summer rills; Through winter's moss and dry dead leaves The bladed grass revives and lives, Pushes the mouldering waste away, And glimpses to the April day.— WHITTIER — Mogg Megone. Pt. III.

And all the woods are alive with the murmur and sound of spring, And the rosebud breaks into pink on the climbing briar, And the crocus bed is a quivering moon of fire Girdled round with the belt of an amethyst ring.— OSCAR WILDE — Magdalen Walks.

The Spring is here the delicate footed May, With its slight fingers full of leaves and flowers, And with it comes a thirst to be away, In lovelier scenes to pass these sweeter hours.— N. P. WILLIS — Spring.

Summer. In lang, lang days o' simmer, When the clear and cloudless sky Refuses ae wee drap o' rain To Nature parched and dry, The genial night, wi' balmy breath, Gars verdure spring anew, An' ilka blade o' grass Keps its ain drap o' dew.— BALLANTINE — Its Ain Drap o' Dew.

O thou who passest through our valleys in Thy strength, curb thy fierce steeds, allay the heat That flames from their large nostrils! Thou, O Summer, Oft pitchest here thy golden tent, and oft Beneath our oaks hast slept, while we beheld With joy thy ruddy limbs and flourishing hair.— WM. BLAKE — To Summer.

542 SEASONS (THE)-SUMMER. But how unlike to April's closing days! High climbs the sun, and darts his powerful rays; Whitens the fresh drawn mould and pierces through The cumbrous clods that tumble round the plough.— BLOOMFIELD — The Farmer's Boy. Summer. St. 1.

The sun has drunk The dew that lay upon the morning grass; There is no rustling in the lofty elm That canopies my dwelling, and its shade Scarce cools me. All is silent save the faint And interrupted murmur of the bee, Settling on the sick flowers, and then again Instantly on the wing.— BRYANT — Summer Wind.

Now simmer blinks on flowery braes, And o'er the crystal streamlet plays. C.— BURNS — The Birks of Aberfeldy.

The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece! Where burning Sappho loved and sung. Where grew the arts of war and peace, - Where Delos rose, and Phœbus sprung! Eternal summer gilds them yet, But all, except their sun, is set.— BYRON — Don Juan. Canto III. St. 86.

The Indian Summer, the dead Summer's soul.— MARY CLEMMER — Presence. L. 62.

All green and fair the Summer lies, Just budded from the bud of Spring, With tender blue of wistful skies, And winds which softly sing.— SUSAN COOLIDGE — Menace.

Dust on thy mantle! dust, Bright Summer, on thy livery of green! A tarnish as of rust, Dims thy late brilliant sheen; And thy young glories, -leaf and bud and flower,- Change cometh over them with every hour.— WM. D. GALLAGHER — August.

From all the misty morning air, there comes a summer sound, A murmur as of waters from skies, and trees, and ground. The birds they sing upon the wing, the pigeons bill and coo.— R. W. GILDER — A Midsummer Song. St. 2.

Oh, father's gone to market-town, he was up before the day, And Jamie's after robins, and the man is making hay, And whistling down the hollow goes the boy that minds the mill, While mother from the kitchen door is calling with a will, "Polly!-Polly! - The cows are in the corn! Oh, where's Polly?"— R. W. GILDER — A Midsummer Song.

SEASONS (THE)-SUMMER. Thou'rt bearing hence thy roses, Glad summer, fare thee well! Thou'rt singing thy last melodies In every wood and dell.— MRS. HEMANS — The Parting of Summer.

Here is the ghost Of a summer that lived for us, Here is a promise Of summer to be.— WM. ERNEST HENLEY — Rhymes and

Rhythms. O for a lodge in a garden of cucumbers! O for an iceberg or two at control! O for a vale that at midday the dew cumbers! O for a pleasure trip up to the pole!— ROSSITER JOHNSON — Ninety-Nine in the

Shade. O summer day beside the joyous sea! O summer day so wonderful and white, So full of gladness and so full of pain! Forever and forever shalt thou be To some the gravestone of a dead delight, To some the landmark of a new domain.— LONGFELLOW — A Summer Day by the Sea. L. 9.

That beautiful season *** the Summer of All-Saints! Filled was the air with a dreamy and magical light; and the landscape Lay as if new created in all the freshness of childhood.— LONGFELLOW — Evangeline. Pt. I. St. 2.

Very hot and still the air was, Very smooth the gliding river, Motionless the sleeping shadows. LONGFELLOw-Hiawatha. Pt. XVIII. L. 54. But see, the shepherds shun the noonday heat, The lowing herds to murmuring brooks retreat, To closer shades the panting flocks remove; Ye gods! and is there no relief for love?— POPE — Pastorals.

Summer. Before green apples blush, Before green nuts embrown, Why, one day in the country Is worth a month in town.— CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI — Summer.

It's surely summer, for there's a swallow: Come one swallow, his mate will follow, The bird race quicken and wheel and thicken.— CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI — A Bird Song.

The summer dawn's reflected hue To purple changed Loch Katrine blue, Mildly and soft the western breeze Just kiss'd the lake, just stirr'd the trees, And the pleased lake, like maiden coy, Trembled but dimpled not for joy. S.— SCOTT — Lady of the Lake. Canto III. St. 2.

SEASONS (THE)-SUMMER. Summer's parching heat.— Shakespeare — Henry VI. Pt. II. Act I. Sc. 1. L.81.

The middle summer's spring. Midsummer-Night's Dream. Act II. Sc. 1. L. 82. Thy eternal summer shall not fade. C.— Shakespeare — Sonnet XVIII.

Heat, ma'am! it was so dreadful here, that I found there was nothing left for it but to take off my flesh and sit in my bones.— SYDNEY SMITH — Lady Holland's Memoir. Vol. I. P. 267.

Then came the jolly sommer, being dight In a thin silken cassock, coloured greene, That was unlyned all, to be more light.— SPENSER — Faerie Queene. Bk. VII. Canto VII. St. 29.

All-conquering Heat, O, intermit thy wrath! And on my throbbing temples, potent thus, Beam not so fierce! incessant still you flow, And still another fervent flood succeeds, Pour'd on the head profuse. In vain I sigh, And restless turn, and look around for night; Night is far off; and hotter Hours approach.— THOMSON — Seasons. Summer. L. 451.

From brightening fields of ether fair-disclosed, Child of the Sun, refulgent Summer comes, In pride of youth, and felt through Nature's depth; He comes, attended by the sultry Hours, And ever-fanning breezes, on his way.— THOMSON — Seasons. Summer. L. 1.

Patient of thirst and toil, Son of the desert, e'en the Camel feels, Shot through his wither'd heart, the fiery blast.— THOMSON — Seasons. Summer. L. 965.

Autumn. Now Autumn's fire burns slowly along the woods, And day by day the dead leaves fall and melt, And night by night the monitory blast Wails in the key-hole, telling how it pass'd O'er empty fields, or upland solitudes, Or grim wide wave; and now the power is felt Of melancholy, tenderer in its moods Than any joy indulgent Summer dealt.— WILLIAM ALLINGHAM — Day and Night

Songs. Autumnal Sonnet. O Autumn, laden with fruit, and stained With the blood of the grape, pass not, but sit Beneath my shady roof; there thou mayest rest And tune thy jolly voice to my fresh pipe, And all the daughters of the year shall dance! Sing now the lusty song of fruits and flowers.— WILLIAM BLAKE — To Autumn. St. 1.

SEASONS (THE)-AUTUMN. 543 Autumn wins you best by this, its mute Appeal to sympathy for its decay.— ROBERT BROWNING — Paracelsus. Sc. 1.

Glorious are the woods in their latest gold aud crimson, Yet our full-leaved willows are in their freshest green. Such a kindly autumn, so mercifully dealing With the growths of summer, I never yet have seen.— BRYANT — Third of November.

The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sear.— BRYANT — The Death of the Flowers.

All-cheering Plenty, with her flowing horn, Led yellow Autumn, wreath'd with nodding corn.— BURNS — Brigs of Ayr. L. 221.

The mellow autumn came, and with it came The promised party, to enjoy its sweets. The corn is cut, the manor full of game; The pointer ranges, and the sportsman beats In russet jacket; -lynx-like is his aim; Full grows his bag, and wonderful his feats. Ah, nutbrown partridges! Ah, brilliant pheasants! And ah, ye poachers!-'Tis no sport for peasants.— BYRON — Don Juan. Canto XIII. St. 75.

Yellow, mellow, ripened days, Sheltered in a golden coating; O'er the dreamy, listless haze, White and dainty cloudlets floating; Winking at the blushing trees, And the sombre, furrowed fallow; Smiling at the airy ease, Of the southward flying swallow. Sweet and smiling are thy ways, Beauteous, golden Autumn days.— WILL CARLETON — Autumn Days.

The summer's throbbing chant is done And mute the choral antiphon; The birds have left the shivering pines To flit among the trellised vines, Or fan the air with scented plumes Amid the love-sick orange blooms, And thou art here alone, -alone, - Sing, little bird! the rest have flown.— O. W. HOLMES — Songs of Many Seasons. An Old-Year Song. St. 4.

I saw old Autumn in the misty morn Stand shadowless like silence, listening To silence, for no lonely bird would sing Into his hollow ear from woods forlorn, Nor lowly hedge nor solitary thorn ;- Shaking his languid locks all dewy bright With tangled gossamer that fell by night, Pearling his coronet of golden corn.— HOOD — Ode. Autumn.

544 SEASONS (THE)-AUTUMN. The Autumn is old; The sere leaves are flying; He hath gather'd up gold, And now he is dying ;-- Old age, begin sighing!— HOOD — Autumn.

The year's in the wane; There is nothing adorning; The night has no eve, And the day has no morning; Cold winter gives warning!— HOOD — Autumn.

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness! Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; Conspiring with him how to load and bless With fruit the vines that round the thatcheaves run; To bend with apples the moss'd cottage trees, And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core,— KEATS — TO Autumn.

Gone are the birds that were our summer guests, With the last sheaves return the laboring wains!— LONGFELLOW — The Harvest Moon. L.7.

It was Autumn, and incessant Piped the quails from shocks and sheaves, And, like living coals, the apples Burned among the withering leaves.— LONGFELLOW — Pegasus in Pound.

What visionary tints the year puts on, When falling leaves falter through motionless air Or numbly cling and shiver to be gone! How shimmer the low flats and pastures bare, As with her nectar Hebe Autumn fills The bowl between me and those distant hills, And smiles and shakes abroad her misty, tremulous hair!— LOWELL — An Indian Summer Reverie.

Every season hath its pleasures; Spring may boast her flowery prime, Yet the vineyard's ruby treasures Brighten Autumn's sob'rer time.— MOORE — Spring and Autumn.

Autumn Into earth's lap does throw Brown apples gay in a game of play, As the equinoctials blow.— D. M. MULOCK — October.

Sorrow and the scarlet leaf, Sad thoughts and sunny weather; Ah me! this glory and this grief Agree not well together!— T. W. PARSONS — A Song for September.

SEASONS (THE)-AUTUMN. Thus sung the shepherds till th' approach of night, The skies yet blushing with departing light, When falling dews with spangles deck'd the glade, And the low sun had lengthened every shade.— POPE — Pastorals. Autumn. Last lines.

Ye flowers that drop, forsaken by the spring, Ye birds that, left by summer, cease to sing, Ye trees that fade, when Autumn heats remove, Say, is not absence death to those who love?— POPE — Autumn. L. 27.

Grieve, O ye Autumn Winds! Summer lies low; The rose's trembling leaves will soon be shed, For she that loved her so, Alas! is dead, And one by one her loving children go.— ADELAIDE A. PROCTER — Lament for the

Summer. Autumn is a weathercock Blown every way.— CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI — Summer.

This sunlight shames November where he grieves In dead red leaves, and will not let him shun The day, though bough with bough be overrun. But with a blessing every glade receives High salutation.— DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI — Autumn

Idleness. The warm sun is failing, the bleak wind is wailing, The bare boughs are sighing, the pale flowers are dying; And the year On the earth her deathbed, in a shroud of leaves dead, Is lying. Come, months, come away, From November to May, In your saddest array; Follow the bier Of the dead cold year, And like dim shadows watch by her sepulchre.— SHELLEY — Autumn. A Dirge.

Divinest Autumn! who may paint thee best, Forever changeful o'er the changeful globe? Who guess thy certain crown, thy favorite crest, The fashion of thy many-colored robe?— R. H. STODDARD — Autumn.

Cold autumn, wan with wrath of wind and rain, Saw pass a soul sweet as the sovereign tune That death smote silent when he smote again.— SWINBURNE — Autumn and Winter. I.

SEASONS (THE)-AUTUMN. Autumn has come; Storming now heaveth the deep sea with foam, Yet would I gratefully lie there, Willingly die there.— ESAIAS TEGNÉR — Fridthjof's Saga.

Ingeborg's Lament. How are the veins of thee, Autumn, laden? Umbered juices, And pulpèd oozes Pappy out of the cherry-bruises, Froth the veins of thee, wild, wild maiden: With hair that musters In globèd clusters, In tumbling clusters, like swarthy grapes, Round thy brow and thine ears o'ershaden; With the burning darkness of eyes like pansies, Like velvet pansies Where through escapes The splendid might of thy conflagrate fancies; With robe gold-tawny not hiding the shapes Of the feet whereunto it falleth down, Thy naked feet unsandalled; With robe gold-tawny that does not veil Feet where the red Is meshed in the brown, Like a rubied sun in a Venice-sail.— FRANCIS THOMPSON — A Corymbus for Autumn. St. 2.

Crown'd with the sickle and the wheaten sheaf, While Autumn, nodding o'er the yellow plain, Comes jovial on. C.— THOMSON — Seasons. Autumn. L.1.

I love to wander through the woodlands hoary In the soft light of an autumnal day, When Summer gathers up her robes of glory, And like a dream of beauty glides away.— SARAH HELEN WHITMAN — Still Day in

Autumn. And Autumn, in his leafless bowers, Is waiting for the Winter's snow.— WHITTIER — Autumn Thoughts.

Autumn's earliest frost had given To the woods below Hues of beauty, such as heaven Lendeth to its bow; And the soft breeze from the west Scarcely broke their dreamy rest.— WHITTIER — The Fountain. St. 9.

Winter. These Winter nights against my window-pane Nature with busy pencil draws designs Of ferns and blossoms and fine spray of pines, Oak-leaf and acorn and fantastic vines, Which she will make when summer comes again- Quaint arabesques in argent, flat and cold, Like curious Chinese etchings.— T. B. ALDRICH — Frost-Work.

SEASONS (THE)-WINTER. 545 O Winter! bar thine adamantine doors: The north is thine; there hast thou built thy dark, Deep-founded habitation. Shake not thy roofs, Nor bend thy pillars with thine iron car.— WILLIAM BLAKE — To Winter.

When now, unsparing as the scourge of war, Blasts follow blasts and groves dismantled roar; Around their home the storm-pinched cattle lows, No nourishment in frozen pasture grows; Yet frozen pastures every morn resound With fair abundance thund'ring to the ground.— BLOOMFIELD — The Farmer's Boy. Winter. St. 2.

Look! the massy trunks Are cased in the pure crystal; each light spray, Nodding and tinkling in the breath of heaven, Is studded with its trembling water-drops, That glimmer with an amethystine light.— BRYANT — A Winter Piece. L. 66.

Yet all how beautiful! Pillars of pearl Propping the cliffs above, stalactites bright From the ice roof depending; and beneath, Grottoes and temples with their crystal spires And gleaming columns radiant in the sun.— WM. HENRY BURLEIGH — Winter.

The frost performs its secret ministry, Unhelped by any wind.— COLERIDGE — Frost at Midnight. L. 1.

Every Fern is tucked and set, 'Neath coverlet, Downy and soft and warm.— SUSAN COOLIDGE — Time to Go.

O Winter! ruler of the inverted year, * * * * * * I crown thee king of intimate delights, Fireside enjoyments, home-born happiness, And all the comforts that the lowly roof Of undisturb'd Retirement, and the hours Of long uninterrupted evening, know.— COWPER — The Task. Bk. IV. L. 120.

There's silence in the harvest field; And blackness in the mountain glen, And cloud that will not pass away From the hill-tops for many a day; And stillness round the homes of men.— MARY HOWITT — Winter.

'Tis winter, yet there is no sound Along the air Of winds along their battle-ground; But gently there The snow is falling, -all around How fair, how fair!— RALPH HOYT — Snow. A Winter Sketch.

546 SEASONS (THE)-WINTER. On a lone winter evening, when the frost Has wrought a silence.— KEATS — On the Grasshopper and Cricket.

His breath like silver arrows pierced the air, The naked earth crouched shuddering at his feet, His finger on all flowing waters sweet Forbidding lay-motion nor sound was there :- Nature was frozen dead, and still and slow, A winding sheet fell o'er her body fair, Flaky and soft, from his wide wings of snow.— FRANCES ANNE KEMBLE — Winter. L. 9.

Every winter, When the great sun has turned his face away, The earth goes down into a vale of grief, And fasts, and weeps, and shrouds herself in sables, Leaving her wedding-garlands to decay- Then leaps in spring to his returning kisses. C.— CHARLES KINGSLEY — Saint's Tragedy. Act III. Sc. 1.

Up rose the wild old winter-king, And shook his beard of snow; "I hear the first young hare-bell ring, 'Tis time for me to go! Northward o'er the icy rocks, Northward o'er the sea, My daughter comes with sunny locks: This land's too warm for me!"— LELAND — Spring.

Where, twisted round the barren oak, The summer vine in beauty clung, And summer winds the stillness broke, The crystal icicle is hung. LONGFELLOw-Woods in Winter. St. 3. But see, Orion sheds unwholesome dews; Arise, the pines a noxious shade diffuse; Sharp Boreas blows, and nature feels decay, Time conquers all, and we must time obey.— POPE — Ode to Winter. L. 85.

Here feel we but the penalty of Adam, The seasons' difference, as the icy fang And churiish chiding of the winter's wind, Which, when it bites and blows upon my body, Even till I shrink with cold, I smile and say, "This is no flattery."— Shakespeare — As You Like It. Act II. Sc. 1. L. 5.

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-whit; Tu-who, a merry note, While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.— Shakespeare — Love's Labour's Lost. Act V. Sc. 2. Sc. 2. L. 922.

SEASONS (THE)-WINTER. Winter's not gone yet, if the wild-geese fly that way.— Shakespeare — King Lear. Act II. Sc. 4. L 46.

In winter, when the dismal rain Came down in slanting lines, And Wind, that grand old harper, smote His thunder-harp of pines.— ALEXANDER SMITH — A Life Drama. Sc. 2.

Green moss shines there with ice encased; The long grass bends its spear-like form; And lovely is the silvery scene When faint the sun-beams smile.— SOUTHEY — Written Dec. 1. St. 9.

Lastly came Winter cloathed all in frize, Chattering his teeth for cold that did him chill; Whilst on his hoary beard his breath did freese, And the dull drops, that from his purpled bill As from a limebeck did adown distill: In his right hand a tipped staffe he held, With which his feeble steps he stayed still; For he was faint with cold, and weak with eld; That scarce his loosed limbes he hable was to weld.— SPENSER — Faerie Queene. Canto VII. Legend of Constancie. St. 31.

Under the snowdrifts the blossoms are sleeping, Dreaming their dreams of sunshine and June, Down in the hush of their quiet they're keeping Trills from the throstle's wild summer-sung tune.— HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD — Under

the Snowdrifts. Dread Winter spreads his latest glooms, And reigns, tremendous, o'er the conquer'd Year. How dead the vegetable kingdom lies! How dumb the tuneful! Horror wide extends His desolate domain.— THOMSON — Seasons. Winter. L. 1,024.

See, Winter comes, to rule the varied year, Sullen and sad, with all his rising train; Vapors, and Clouds, and Storms.— THOMSON — Seasons. Winter. L. 1.

Through the hush'd air the whitening Shower descends, At first thin wavering; till at last th. Flakes Fall broad, and wide, and fast, dimming the day With a continual flow. The cherished Fields Put on their winter-robe of purest white. 'Tis brightness all; save where the new Snow melts Along the mazy current.— THOMSON — Seasons. Winter. L 229.

SEASONS (THE)-WINTER. Make we here our camp of winter; And, through sleet and snow, Pitchy knot and beechen splinter On our hearth shall glow. Here, with mirth to lighten duty, We shall lack alone Woman's smile and girlhood's beauty, Childhood's lisping tone.— WHITTIER — Lumbermen. St. 8.