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Nay, Spring was o'er-happy and knew not the reason,
And Summer dreamed sadly, for she thought all was ended
In her fulness of wealth that might not be amended;
But this is the harvest and the garnering season,
And the leaf and the blossom in the ripe fruit are blended.

 

William Morris

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Beside the staff of life,
taken and fashioned from the heavy earth,
beside our marriage, work, and war
the free man, too, will live and grow towards the sun.
Not the ripe fruit alone —
blossom is lovely, too.
Does blossom only serve the fruit,
or does fruit only serve the blossom —
who knows?
But both are given to us.

 

Dietrich Bonhoeffer

 

Next morning, when the golden sunne was risen,
And new had bid good morrow to the mountaines;
When night her silver light had lockt in prison,
Which gave a glimmering on the christall fountaines:
Then ended sleepe, and then my cares began,
Ev'n with the uprising of the silver swan.

Oh, glorious sunne! quoth I, viewing the sunne,
That lightenst everie thing but me alone:
Why is my summer season almost done,
My spring-time past, and ages autumne gone?
My harvest's come, and yet I reapt no corne:
My love is great, and yet I am forlorne.

 

Richard Barnfield

 

The fruit will fall into our hands when it is ripe, without an officious shaking of the tree. Cuba will be ours … in due season, without the wicked impertinence of war.

 

Vladimir Lenin

 

I thought of your beauty, and this arrow,
Made out of a wild thought, is in my marrow.
There's no man may look upon her, no man,
As when newly grown to be a woman,
Tall and noble but with face and bosom
Delicate in colour as apple blossom.
This beauty's kinder, yet for a reason
I could weep that the old is out of season.

 

William Butler Yeats

 

What is more cheerful, now, in the fall of the year, than an open-wood-fire? Do you hear those little chirps and twitters coming out of that piece of apple-wood? Those are the ghosts of the robins and blue-birds that sang upon the bough when it was in blossom last Spring. In Summer whole flocks of them come fluttering about the fruit-trees under the window: so I have singing birds all the year round.

 

Thomas Bailey Aldrich