The changing year's progressive plan Proclaims mortality to man. — Horace
The changing year's progressive plan Proclaims mortality to man. — Horace
The changing year's progressive plan Proclaims mortality to man. — Horace
The changing year's progressive plan Proclaims mortality to man. — Horace
The changing year's progressive plan Proclaims mortality to man. — Horace
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The changing year's progressive plan Proclaims mortality to man.

— Horace
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seasons

More “Seasons” Quotes

The moon grew plump and pale as a peeled apple, waned into the passing nights, then showed itself again as a thin silver — James Carlos Blake, Wildwood Boys
Winter was nothing but a season of snow; spring, allergies; and summer...It was the worst. That was swimsuit season. — Teresa Lo, Realities: a Collection of Short Stories
A garden did not need people in order to be alive and natural. The flowers might have died, and the last leaves might be — Madeline Hunter, Stealing Heaven
Daffodils are yellow trumpets of spring — Richard L. Ratliff
But when fall comes, kicking summer out on its treacherous ass as it always does one day sometime after the midpoint of — Stephen King, 'Salem's Lot
A thin grey fog hung over the city, and the streets were very cold; for summer was in England. — Rudyard Kipling, The Light That Failed [Illustrated]
It is not summer, England doesn't have summer, it has continuous autumn with a fortnight's variation here and there. — Natasha Pulley, The Watchmaker of Filigree Street
The dreamy days and sticky nights of summer were already calling, as if anything could happen. — C.J. Carlyon, The Cherry House
And they left the mellow light of the dandelion wine and went upstairs to carry out the last few rituals of summer, for — Ray Bradbury, Dandelion Wine
June dawns, July noons, August evenings over, finished, done, and gone forever with only the sense of it all left here i — Ray Bradbury, Dandelion Wine
The spring rains woke the dormant tillers, and bright green shoots sprang from the moist earth and rose like sleepers st — Rick Yancey, The Infinite Sea
August rain: the best of the summer gone, and the new fall not yet born. The odd uneven time. — Sylvia Plath