[W]oods are filled with the music of birds, and all nature is laughing under the glorious influence of Summer. – Charles Lanman, “The Dying Year,” 1840

Heat, ma’am! it was so dreadful here, that I found there was nothing left for it but to take off my flesh and sit in my bones. – Sydney Smith, Lady Holland’s Memoir

In summer, the song sings itself. – William Carlos Williams

It was June, and the world smelled of roses. The sunshine was like powdered gold over the grassy hillside. – Maud Hart Lovelace, Betsy-Tacy and Tib, 1941