spring

In the spring, at the end of the day, you should smell like dirt.

It was such a spring day as breathes into a man an ineffable yearning, a painful sweetness, a longing that makes him stand motionless, looking at the leaves or grass, and fling out his arms to embrace he knows not what.

Because the birdsong might be pretty,But it's not for you they sing,And if you think my winter is too cold,You don't deserve my spring.

Spring work is going on with joyful enthusiasm.

Spring season is a sacred season of great strength.

Ha! spring arrived on her sweet scented palanquin,carried by the spirited Zephyrus and his coir with their murmuring music undulated in its own softness and fondled the leaves to astir.

Despite the heart numbing frost, my soul is blooming like spring.

It is always a joyful spring when your heart can dance and your soul can sing.

My everlasting Summer fills heart with laughter like a blooming flower... Her diverse sounds is nature's symphony, sprinkle delight, with comfort of ocean breeze which needs no attest.. The unique every moment of soul's revival and its sun to shine...

I love the arrival of a new season _ each one bringing with it its own emotion: spring is full of hope; summer is freedom; autumn is a colourful release, and winter brings an enchanting peace. It's hard to pick which one I enjoy the most _ each time the new one arrives, I remember its beauty and forget the previous one whose qualities have started to dim.

Are we to look at cherry blossoms only in full bloom, the moon only when it is cloudless? To long for the moon while looking on the rain, to lower the blinds and be unaware of the passing of the spring - these are even more deeply moving. Branches about to blossom or gardens strewn with flowers are worthier of our admiration.

Sometimes it's hard to look at a flower, when your dying inside.

Is the spring coming?" he said. "What is it like?"..."It is the sun shining on the rain and the rain falling on the sunshine...

The courtyard kept changing, dazzling her with the flowers that bloomed between one day and the next, with the bare branches of trees that were swollen with the buds of new leaves and then fuzzed with green. Every day, she drove a familiar road through a new place.

She awaits the rain like a writer embraces metaphors,A drizzle isn't for the child who dances in the storm.Of rain that washes away the petrichor it brings,A downpour of a hail of bullets, and she calls it spring.

I'd love to wake up to complete silence, white sheets, and the smell of crisp air and roses.

As the season changes, we learn to adapt.

Who is the spring of living water? The Sovereign Lord.