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Summer

  • [The] very hot day ... was like a last flaming hand-clasp from the departing summer.

    • Kathleen T. Norris,
    • "Making Allowances for Mamma," Poor, Dear Margaret Kirby and Other Stories ()
  • ... 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.

  • Summer on the desert dies like a snake. You think it's done for, dead as a doornail, then there comes another fierce burst of life. And even that violent lashing may not be final.

  • July was the month when summer, like bread in the oven, might change color, but it would rise no higher. It was at its height.

  • ... summer makes a silence after spring ...

  • The softness of the summer day like an ermine paw.

    • Anaïs Nin,
    • 1937, The Diary of Anaïs Nin, vol. 2 ()
  • How softly summer shuts, without the creaking of a door ...

    • Emily Dickinson,
    • 1880, in Mabel Loomis Todd, ed., Letters of Emily Dickinson, vol. 2 ()
  • Winter is cold-hearted, / Spring is yea and nay, / Autumn is a weathercock / Blown every way: / Summer days for me / When every leaf is on its tree ...

  • Summer is a verb.

  • Summer is delicately made. / While it is, it is ceasing.

  • One of the fallacies of summer holidays is that you are going to get some serious reading done while you are lying on the beach.

  • Summer, no matter how hard any one worked, was an interlude. It didn't really matter.

    • Ruth Suckow,
    • "A Great Mollie," A Ruth Suckow Omnibus ()
  • ... in Chungking's summer, people could not sleep. They strolled in the night until exhaustion pushed them into stupor — a stupor abridged by the ferocious return of the despotic sun at dawn, exploding out of the river and laying its slaughtering rays upon all.

  • The first week of August hangs at the very top of summer, the top of the live-long year, like the highest seat of a Ferris wheel when it pauses in its turning.

  • ... the first week of August is motionless, and hot. It is curiously silent, too, with blank white dawns and glaring noons, and sunsets smeared with too much color. Often at night there is lightning, but it quivers all alone. There is no thunder, no relieving rain. These are strange and breathless days, the dog days, when people are led to do things they are sure to be sorry for.

  • Flies are the price we pay for summer.

  • Summertime is the time of sharpest memory.

  • In summer, when doorstep life dominates, the natural quality of the neighborhood comes out.

  • Full summer was upon the land again, with its sweet, rich murmur of growth, its colored vapors, its warm, sweet somnolence, like the heavy drone of a golden bee.

  • Summer comes over the hill like a hairy blanket.

  • Summer, shrewd doctor, treats the eye before all else, / sends in the season's tray of soft foods, pollen and rose ...

  • There was nowhere to escape the heat. It was there every day when we awoke, persistent and unbroken, and hanging in the air like an unfinished argument. It leaked people's days onto pavements and patios and, no longer able to contain ourselves within brick and cement, we melted into the outside, bringing our lives along with us. Meals, conversations, arguments were all woken and untethered and allowed outdoors.