Everybody complains about the weather, but nobody does anything about it.
A perfect summer day is when the sun is shining, the breeze is blowing, the birds are singing, and the lawnmower is broken.
Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate. (“Sonnet 18”)
If April showers should come your way, they bring the flowers that bloom in May.
I stuck my head out the window this morning and spring kissed me bang in the face.
This is one time where television really fails to capture the true excitement of a large squirrel predicting the weather. (Phil)
Once a year, the eyes of the nation turn to this tiny hamlet in Western Pennsylvania to watch a master at work. The master? Punxsutawney Phil, the world’s most famous weatherman. The groundhog. (Phil)
The groundhog is like most other prophets; it delivers its prediction and then disappears.
I covet solitude and storms…and rain, with its geography of dark silence and distance.
Getting an inch of snow is like winning 10 cents in the lottery.