The Indian Summer of life should be a little sunny and a little sad, like the season, and infinite in wealth and depth of tone, but never hustled.

He had become enveloped in the Indian Summer of the Soul.

Deep summer is when laziness finds respectability.

There is no price set on the lavish summer,
And June may be had by the poorest comer.

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date:
Sometimes too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And too often is his gold complexion dimm'd:
And every fair from fair sometimes declines,
By chance or natures changing course untrimm'd;
By thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;
Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou growest:
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this and this gives life to thee.

A happy soul, that all the way
To heaven hath a summer’s day.

There shall be
Eternal summer in the grateful heart.

Warm autumn day. The last hours and minutes of the outgoing Indian summer. The weather is wonderful. The sun gives warmth to everyone. Children play at merchandisers. Smiles of good people from billboards attract to buy a cockroach remedy. Male pensioners in trolleybuses give his sits to female pensioners. Traffic cop gives out invitations to a concert of police ditties. Somewhere in the yellowed foliage, a stupid starling sings his trills. And yet something is missing. Missing her. Inconceivable, but there were times when I could somehow do without Africa.

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 gathering season,
And the leaf and the blossom in the ripe fruit are blended.

Summer-we all have seen-
A few of us-believed-
A few the more aspiring
Unquestionably loves... .

Pleasant, summer, and slow long day; Also pleasant to pass out of chastisement Pleasant, the blossoms on the tops of the pear-trees; Also pleasant, friendship with the Creator.

Summer is only the unfulfilled promise of spring, a charlatan in place of the warm balmy nights I dream of in April. It’s a sad season of life without growth…It has no day.

And they both sat there, grown up, yet children at heart; and it was summer, - warm, beautiful summer.

If it could only be like this always – always summer, always alone, the fruit always ripe and Aloysius in a good temper...