Nobody can keep spring out of Harlem. I stuck my head out the window this morning and spring kissed me bang in the face.

Summer was made to give you a taste of what hell is like. Winter was made for landladies to charge high rents and keep cold radiators and make a fortune off of poor tenants.

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun.

August creates as she slumbers, replete and satisfied.

In our hearts those of us who know anything worth knowing know that in March a new year begins, and if we plan any new leaves, it will be when the rest of Nature is planning them too.

No price is set on the lavish summer; June may be had by the poorest comer.

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

Wag the world how it will, Leaves must be green in Spring.

April Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.

November's sky is chill and drear, Novembers leaf is red and sear.