“What is more gentle than a wind is summer?”

I am convinced more and more day by day that fine writing is next to fine doing, the top thing in the world.

Land and sea, weakness and decline are great separators, but death is the great divorcer for ever.

Life is but a day; A fragile dewdrop on its perilous way From a tree’s summit.

How does the poet speak to men with power, but by being still more a man than they.

My love is selfish. I cannot breathe without you.

You are always new, the last of your kisses was ever the sweetest.

Whatever the imagination seizes as Beauty must be truth -whether it existed before or not.

Give me books, French wine, fruit, fine weather and a little music played out of doors by somebody I do not know.

The feel of not to feel it, When there is none to heal it Nor numbed sense to steel it.

And how they kist each other’s tremulous eyes.

Pleasure is oft a visitant; but pain Clings cruelly to us.

Beauty is truth, truth beauty.

But the rose leaves herself upon the brier, For winds to kiss and grateful bees to feed.

I have an habitual feeling of my real life having past, and that I am leading a posthumous existence.

Stop and consider! life is but a day

Through the dancing poppies stole A breeze, most softly lulling to my soul.

There are many in this old world of ours who hold that things break about even for all of us. I have observed, for example, that we all get the same amount of ice. The rich get it in the summertime and the poor get it in the winter.

Autumn clouds, vague and obscure; The evening, lonely and chill. I felt the dampness on my garments, But saw no spot, and heard no sound of rain.

Summer has set in with its usual severity.

A perfect summer day is when the sun is shining, the breeze is blowing and mojito in your hand.

…prodigal summer, the season of extravagant procreation. It could wear out everything in its path with its passionate excesses, but nothing alive with wings or a heart or a seed curled into itself in the ground could resist welcoming it back when it came.

Where today are the Pequot? Where are the Narragansett, the Mohican, the Pokanoket, and many other once powerful tribes of our people? They have vanished before the avarice and the oppression of the White Man, as snow before a summer sun.

A strip of water’s spread in the setting sun, Half the river’s emerald, half is red. I love the third night of the ninth month, The dew is like a pearl; the moon like a bow.

Jev stroked his chin. “do i look like a summer fling?