I think that I shall never see; A poem lovely as a tree; A tree whose hungry mouth is prest; Against the earth's sweet flowing breast;; A tree that looks at God all day; And lifts her leafy arms to pray;; A tree that may in Summer wear; A nest of robins in her hair;; Upon whose bosom snow has lain;; Who intimately lives with rain; Poems are made by fools like me; But only God can make a tree;
O Lord our God, help us tear their soldiers to bloody shreds with our shells; help us to cover their smiling fields with the pale forms of their patriot dead; help us to drown the thunder of the guns with the shrieks of their wounded, writhing in pain; help us to lay waste their humble homes with a hurricane of fire; help us to wring the hearts of their unoffending widows with unavailing grief; help us to turn them out roofless with their little children to wander unfriended the wastes of their desolated land in rags and hunger and thirst, sports of the sun flames of summer and the icy winds of winter, broken in spirit, worn with travail, imploring Thee for the refuge of the grave and denied it.
__Mark Twain, "The War Prayer"
I want to be your friend; For ever and ever without break or decay; When the hills are all flat; And the rivers are all dry; When it lightens and thunders in winter; When it rains and snows in summer; When Heaven and Earth mingle; Not till then will I part from you;
__Chinese 1st century AD, translated Arthur Waley
It breaks your heart. It is designed to break your heart. The game begins in spring, when everything else begins again, and it blossoms in the summer, filling the afternoons and evenings, and then as soon as the chill rains come, it stops and leaves you to face the fall alone.
__A. Bartlett Giamatti, "The Green Fields of the Mind," Yale Alumni Magazine, November 1977
Baseball, to me, is still the national pastime because it is a summer game. I feel that almost all Americans are summer people, that summer is what they think of when they think of their childhood. I think it stirs up an incredible emotion within people.
__Steve Busby, in Washington Post, 8 July 1974
Basketball, hockey and track meets are action heaped upon action, climax upon climax, until the onlooker's responses become deadened. Baseball is for the leisurely afternoons of summer and for the unchanging dreams.
Like those special afternoons in summer when you go to Yankee Stadium at two o'clock in the afternoon for an eight o'clock game. It's so big, so empty and so silent that you can almost hear the sounds that aren't there.