months

"Oh! that we two were Maying Down the stream of the soft spring breeze; Like children with violets playing, In the shade of the whispering trees."

"O May, sweet-voiced one, going thus before, Forever June may pour her warm red wine Of life and passion,—sweeter days are thine!"

"O month when they who love must love and wed."

"Sweet May hath come to love us, Flowers, trees, their blossoms don; And through the blue heavens above us The very clouds move on."

"But winter lingering chills the lap of May."

"Spring's last-born darling, clear-eyed, sweet, Pauses a moment, with white twinkling feet, And golden locks in breezy play, Half teasing and half tender, to repeat Her song of "May.""

"As it fell upon a day In the merry month of May, Sitting in a pleasant shade Which a grove of myrtles made."

"Hebe's here, May is here! The air is fresh and sunny; And the miser-bees are busy Hoarding golden honey."

"Like an army defeated The snow hath retreated, And now doth fare ill On the top of the bare hill; The Ploughboy is whooping—anon—anon! There's joy in the mountains: There's life in the fountains; Small clouds are sailing, Blue sky prevailing; The rain is over and gone."

"Up from the sea, the wild north wind is blowing Under the sky's gray arch; Smiling I watch the shaken elm boughs, knowing It is the wind of March."

"All in the wild March-morning I heard the angels call; It was when the moon was setting, and the dark was over all; The trees began to whisper, and the wind began to roll, And in the wild March-morning I heard them call my soul."

"With rushing winds and gloomy skies The dark and stubborn Winter dies: Far-off, unseen, Spring faintly cries, Bidding her earliest child arise; March!"

"In fierce March weather White waves break tether, And whirled together At either hand, Like weeds uplifted, The tree-trunks rifted In spars are drifted, Like foam or sand."

"The ides of March are come."

"Slayer of the winter, art thou here again? O welcome, thou that bring'st the summer nigh! The bitter wind makes not the victory vain, Nor will we mock thee for thy faint blue sky."

"Ah, March! we know thou art Kind-hearted, spite of ugly looks and threats, And, out of sight, art nursing April's violets!"

"March. Its tree, Juniper. Its stone, Bloodstone. Its motto, "Courage and strength in times of danger.""

"It is the month of June, The month of leaves and roses, When pleasant sights salute the eyes And pleasant scents the noses."

"And what is so rare as a day in June? Then, if ever, come perfect days; Then Heaven tries earth if it be in tune, And over it softly her warm ear lays."

"June falls asleep upon her bier of flowers; In vain are dewdrops sprinkled o'er her, In vain would fond winds fan her back to life, Her hours are numbered on the floral dial."

"What joy have I in June's return? My feet are parched—my eyeballs burn, I scent no flowery gust; But faint the flagging Zephyr springs, With dry Macadam on its wings, And turns me "dust to dust.""

"I gazed upon the glorious sky And the green mountains round, And thought that when I came to lie At rest within the ground, 'Twere pleasant, that in flowery June, When brooks send up a cheerful tune, And groves a joyous sound, The sexton's hand, my grave to make, The rich, green mountain-turf should break."

"Do you recall that night in June Upon the Danube River; We listened to the ländler-tune, We watched the moonbeams quiver."

"So sweet, so sweet the roses in their blowing, So sweet the daffodils, so fair to see; So blithe and gay the humming-bird a-going From flower to flower, a-hunting with the bee."

"Purple loosestrife arrived early, shaking luxuriant locks along the edge of the mirror whence its own face laughed back at it. Willow-herb, tender and wistful, like a pink sunset-cloud was not slow to follow. Comfrey, the purple hand-in-hand with the white, crept forth to take its place in the line; and at last one morning the diffident and delaying dog-rose stepped delicately on the stage, and one knew, as if string music has announced it in stately chords that strayed into a gavotte, that June at last was here."

"Japanese folklore tells of a practice called ubasute—literally "abandoning an old woman"—in which villagers would carry their elderly and burdensome relatives to the peak of a mountain or some other similarly desolate place and leave them there to die ... In the film business, ubasute is an all-too-real phenomenon, and it happens in full view of the public. Every year, during the first proper weekend of January, the studios’ niche labels trot out the horror movies they know have nothing to contribute to society and leave them for dead in your local multiplex, hoping that the release might make life simpler by turning a tidy profit and easing the company balance sheets.All of this is to say that anybody with access to a calendar already knows that The Forest is bad; at this point, that's less of a presumption than it is a tradition. The only question worth asking about an early January horror movie is if its inevitable badness is at all interesting."

"It's easy to kill a movie. Just move it to January."

"The only people who are going to see movies at that time are over the age of 35; who have savings accounts and weren't tapped out by Christmas. That's why Taken was such a hit and why Clint Eastwood movies tend to do so well in January. They are made for an audience that still has money. They release the Oscar bait movies, which play to that crowd, and then you just get this terrible sprinkling of crap."

"The most serious charge which can be brought against New England is not Puritanism but February."

"The February sunshine steeps your boughs And tints the buds and swells the leaves within."

"Come when the rains Have glazed the snow and clothed the trees with ice, While the slant sun of February pours Into the bowers a flood of light. Approach! The incrusted surface shall upbear thy steps And the broad arching portals of the grove Welcome thy entering."

"February, fill the dyke With what thou dost like."

"February makes a bridge, and March breaks it."

"When we shall hear The rain and wind beat dark December, how, In this our pinching cave, shall we discourse The freezing hours away?"

"In cold December fragrant chaplets blow, And heavy harvests nod beneath the snow."

"December drops no weak, relenting tear, By our fond Summer sympathies ensnared; Nor from the perfect circle of the year Can even Winter's crystal gems be spared."

"In December I'll make your block feel like summer."

"The sun that brief December day Rose cheerless over hills of gray, And, darkly circled, gave at noon A sadder light than waning moon."

"In a drear-nighted December, Too happy, happy brook, Thy bubblings ne'er remember Apollo's summer look; But with a sweet forgetting, They stay their crystal fretting, Never, never petting About the frozen time"

"Shout now! The months with loud acclaim, Take up the cry and send it forth; May breathing sweet her Spring perfumes, November thundering from the North. With hands upraised, as with one voice, They join their notes in grand accord; Hail to December! say they all, It gave to Earth our Christ the Lord!"

"Wild was the day; the wintry sea Moaned sadly on New England's strand, When first the thoughtful and the free, Our fathers, trod the desert land."

"Only the sea intoning, Only the wainscot-mouse, Only the wild wind moaning Over the lonely house."

"The August cloud * * * suddenly Melts into streams of rain."

"In the parching August wind, Cornfields bow the head, Sheltered in round valley depths, On low hills outspread."

"Why should this Negro insolently stride Down the red noonday on such noiseless feet? Piled in his barrow, tawnier than wheat, Lie heaps of smouldering daisies, sombre-eyed, Their copper petals shriveled up with pride, Hot with a superfluity of heat, Like a great brazier borne along the street By captive leopards, black and burning pied. Are there no water-lilies, smooth as cream, With long stems dripping crystal? Are there none Like those white lilies, luminous and cool, Plucked from some hemlock-darkened northern stream By fair-haired swimmers, diving where the sun Scarce warms the surface of the deepest pool?"

"Dead is the air, and still! the leaves of the locust and walnut Lazily hang from the boughs, inlaying their intricate outlines Rather on space than the sky -on a tideless expansion of slumber."