To what purpose, April, do you return again? Beauty is not…

Spring TO what purpose, April, do you return again? Beauty is not enough. You can no longer quiet me with the redness Of little…

— Edna St. Vincent Millay

You were born a child of light’s wonderful secret— you return to the beauty you have always been.

— Aberjhani

Life in itself / Is nothing, / An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs. / It is not enough that yearly, down this…

— Edna St. Vincent Millay

“ Song of a Second April APRIL this year, not otherwise Than April of a year ago Is full of whispers, full of sighs,…

— Edna St. Vincent Millay

We can't possibly have a summer love. So many people have tried that the name's become proverbial. Summer is only the unfulfilled promise of…

— F. Scott Fitzgerald

Spring in the world! And all things are made new!

— Richard Hovey

Hark, I hear a robin calling! List, the wind is from the south! And the orchard-bloom is falling Sweet as kisses on the mouth.…

— Lucy Maud Montgomery

Spring. March fans it, April christens it, and May puts on its jacket and trousers.

— Henry David Thoreau

But days even earlier than these, in April, have a charm, — even days that seem raw and rainy, when the sky is dull…

— Thomas Wentworth Higginson

“When bullying April bruised mine eyes With sleet-bound appetites and crude Experiments of green, I still was wise And kissed the blossoming rod.”

— Cecil Day-Lewis

I had not thought of violets of late, The wild, shy kind that springs beneath you feet In wistful April days.

— Alice Dunbar Nelson

Spring with its wavin' green grass and heaps of sweet-smellin' flowers on every hill and in every dale.

— Roy Bean

The air is like a butterfly With frail blue wings. The happy earth looks at the sky And sings.

— Joyce Kilmer

And the seasons they go 'round and 'round And the painted ponies go up and down We're captive on the carousel of time We…

— Joni Mitchell

The old men of the village of Mahotière say that the Mistress of the Water is a mulatto woman. At midnight she comes out…

— Jacques Roumain