A Quote by Wallace Stevens
The summer night is like a perfection of thought.
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My first joke that ever aired on 'Late Night' was for a list of 'Top 10 Least Popular Summer Camps.' My contribution - 'Camp Tick in beautiful Lyme, Connecticut' - squeaked in at No. 10. Like a trip to Camp Tick, my time at 'Late Night' faded into memory like a short session at a dicey summer camp.
Press close, bare-bosomed Night! Press close, magnetic,
nourishing Night!
Night of south winds! Night of the large, few stars!
Still, nodding Night! Mad, naked, Summer Night!
I fell for her in summer, my lovely summer girl, From summer she is made, my lovely summer girl, I’d love to spend a winter with my lovely summer girl, But I’m never warm enough for my lovely summer girl, It’s summer when she smiles, I’m laughing like a child, It’s the summer of our lives; we’ll contain it for a while She holds the heat, the breeze of summer in the circle of her hand I’d be happy with this summer if it’s all we ever had.
It is the middle and pure height and whole of summer and a summer night, the held breath, of a planet's year; high shored sleeps the crested tide: what day of the month I do not know, which day of the week I am not sure, far less what hour of the night.
I have always looked at it this way: If you strive like crazy for perfection - an all-out assault on total perfection - at the very least you will hit a high level of excellence, and then you might be able to sleep at night. To accomplish something truly significant, excellence has to become a life plan.
I don't see perfection as far as a visual image of perfection. "Perfection" to me is, I walk away from a situation and say, "I did everything I could do right there. There was nothing more that I could do." Like, I worked as hard as I possibly could have. That's perfection.
Pale as ice you passed me by; I wondered what you really felt, And waited through the changing times, To see if you would one day melt. I thought that ice would melt with warmth, But there were thing I did not know: The sun can touch the outer layers But does not reach the deepest snow. Winter sometimes seems like years, Summer's sometimes far away, But winter always turns to summer, As surely as does night to day.
Autumn truly is what summer pretends to be: the best of all seasons. It is as glorious as summer is tedious; as subtle as summer is obvious; as refreshing as summer is wearying. Autumn seems like paradise.
The harvest moon has no innocence, like the slim quarter moon of a spring twilight, nor has it the silver penny brilliance of the moon that looks down upon the resorts of summer time. Wise, ripe, and portly, like an old Bacchus, it waxes night after night.
In this world, perfection is an illusion. Reagrdless of all those who utter the contrary, this is the reality. Obviously mediocre fools will forever lust for perfection and seek it out. However, what meaning is there in perfection? None. Not a bit. ...After perfection there exists nothing higher. Not even room for creation which means there is no room for wisdom or talent either. Understand? To scientists like ourselves, perfection is despair. - Kurotsuchi Mayuri (Bleach 306)
I'm definitely hesitant wearing shorts during the summer. Like for a pale person, you know, summer - everyone in the world is so excited for summer, but pale people, we're just like, oh no.
When I look back, I can say that the summer when I was 19 was a formative time for me. But at the time I just thought I was making tofu every night for dinner and going to work.
Love can make a summer fly, or a night seem like a lifetime.
You're like a cold beer, darling, on a long hot summer night.
'Boys of Summer,' to me, is like the end of the summer, man. That heartbreaking feeling where you have to go back to school, your summer love is coming to an end, and the leaves are changing. That was always such an emotional time for me as a kid, because I loved summer so much.
The summer lasted a long long time, like verse after verse of a ballad, but when it ended, it ended like a man falling dead in the street of heart trouble. One night, all in one night, severe winter came, a white horse of snow rolling over Bountiful, snorting and rolling in its meadows, its fields.
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