Scent of summer
And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees, just as things grow fast in movies, I had the familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer. F. Scott Fitzgerald
Green was the silence, wet was the light, the month of June trembled like a butterfly.
I walk without flinching the burning cathedral of the summer. My bank of wild grass is majestic and full og music. It is a fire that solitude presses against my lips.
Beauty surrounds us, but usually we need to be walking in a garden to know it.
Live in each season as it passes; breathe the air, drink the drink, taste the fruit, and resign yourself to the influence of the earth.
HENRY DAVID THOREAU