欧宝娱乐

“It was one of those March days when the sun shines hot and the wind blows cold: when it is summer in the light, and winter in the shade.”
― Charles Dickens, Great Expectations

“March came in that winter like the meekest and mildest of lambs, bringing days that were crisp and golden and tingling, each followed by a frosty pink twilight which gradually lost itself in an elfland of moonshine.”
― L.M. Montgomery

“By March, the worst of the winter would be over. The snow would thaw, the rivers begin to run and the world would wake into itself again.

Not that year.

Winter hung in there, like an invalid refusing to die. Day after grey day the ice stayed hard; the world remained unfriendly and cold.”
― Neil Gaiman, Odd and the Frost Giants

“The good news is that Christ frees us from the need to obnoxiously focus on our goodness, our commitment, and our correctness. Religious has made us obsessive almost beyond endurance. Jesus invited us to a dance...and we've turned in into a march of soldiers, always checking to see if we're doing it right and are in step and in line with the other soldiers. We know a dance would be more fun, but we believe we must go through hell to get to heaven, so we keep marching.”
― Steve Brown, A Scandalous Freedom: The Radical Nature of the Gospel

“They captured in their ramble all the mysteries and magics of a March evening. Very still and mild it was, wrapped in a great, white, brooding silence -- a silence which was yet threaded through with many little silvery sounds which you could hear if you hearkened as much with your soul as your ears. The girls wandered down a long pineland aisle that seemed to lead right out into the heart of a deep-red, overflowing winter sunset.”
― L.M. Montgomery

“Only those with tenacity can march forward in March”
― Ernest Agyemang Yeboah

“POOR MARCH
It is the HOMELIEST month of the year. Most of it is MUD, Every Imaginable Form of MUD, and what isn't MUD in March is ugly late-season SNOW falling onto the ground in filthy muddy heaps that look like PILES of DIRTY LAUNDRY.”
― Vivian Swift, When Wanderers Cease to Roam: A Traveler's Journal of Staying Put

“But why should the daffodils and tulips
Get all the praise and blessings?
My rebirth goes unnoticed- I am worthy
Of smiles and dazzled cries of worship.”
― Lea Malot, Coffins & Rhinestones

“The seventeenth of March. In other words, spring. Desmond, people who think themselves smart, I mean those in the height of fashion, women or men - can they afford to wait any longer before buying their spring wardrobes?”
― Colette, Cheri and The Last of Cheri

“The almond blossom from the tree has gone, to be replaced by new green shoots. It smells of spring, and mown grass, and tilled earth from the fields beyond. Now is the month of Germinal in the Republican calendar: the month of hyacinth, and bees, and violet, and primrose. It is also the windy month; the month of new beginnings, and I have never felt it so strongly as I feel it now: that sense of possibility; that irresistible lightness.”
― Joanne Harris, The Strawberry Thief

“... So this was how it was to be, now: I would do my best to live in the quick world, but the ghosts of the dead would be ever at hand.”
― Geraldine Brooks, March

“Yes, but it鈥檚, you know鈥攅very year, you鈥檙e all, 鈥楳arch! This is going to be great! Start of spring!鈥� But it鈥檚 definitely not, right? Because there will be a weird, freak snowstorm, and it鈥檚 like winter鈥檚 started all over. Unexpected things happen in March.”
― Kate Clayborn, Love Lettering

“I hated March more than any other month, with its promises of warmth that never came”
― Amina Cain, Indelicacy

“February Soup by Stewart Stafford

The February fog,
Turns all into blobs,
Orange street lights,
To Valentine's Night.

When the wind strays,
Fog's mantle is grey,
Laying misty bouquets,
On barren, muddied days.

The daffodils of March,
Can cheer up Plutarch,
Adorned in Kelly green,
No sign of foggy screens.

漏 Stewart Stafford, 2023. All rights reserved.”
― Stewart Stafford

“March is like a mischievous child. It startles, delights and vexes鈥攁ll in the same day鈥攖hen, suddenly, with a sunny smile, it declares total innocence.”
― Peggy Toney Horton, Sunshine Hollow

“March' is a sharp word, brusque and bracing, like its month. 'January', "February'; they meander like rivers; 'April' is like the sound of raindrops on the windowpane; but 'March' is a gust of wind flinging grit.”
― Adrian Bell, A Countryman's Spring Notebook

“These feelings don't just go away. They linger. Hover. They are with me always. Even at my most functioning...they are there, watching me. These emotions are my roommates now, bunking up beside me at night. They do not pay any rent...they are determinded to ruin me, and yet I can never fully evict them from my brain.

I have tried -- really tried -- to chip away at my grief...But lately, I've just given up. I'm finally giving it permission to breathe and exist...

Most days now, they lie dormant in me. Sometimes it gets so quiet in my brain I think they've finally packed up and left. But every year as the calendar rounds the corner to March and the anniversary of her death approaches, anger bubbles again...I rage over the smallest of things, screaming behind the steering wheel of my car when another driver forgets to use their blinker. At first I'm perplexed, and then I remember: it's here again. And I am still mad. So mad. I can starve it, avoid it, rationalize it, manage it, talk about it in therapy, and eat it up in neat little points value. No matter how much weight I lose, I will never lose this one simple truth: I want my mom. I am so f***ing mad that she's gone. And that feeling will never, ever die.”
― Kate Spencer, The Dead Moms Club: A Memoir about Death, Grief, and Surviving the Mother of All Losses

“Old leaves are galloping over the new grass.”
― Adrian Bell, A Countryman's Spring Notebook

“It was a dark, early March afternoon, colder and grayer than usual, even though the crocuses and the tulips were pushing their way through the frozen ground, eager to usher in spring. Yet Old Man Winter refused to relinquish his grasp.”
― Sarah Jio, The Violets of March

“Dear March 鈥� Come in 鈥�

How glad l am I hoped for you before -

Put down your Hat鈥�

You must have walked -

How out of Breath you are -

Dear March, how are you, and the Rest-

Did you leave Nature well -

Oh March, Come right up stairs with me 鈥�

I have so much to tell -

I got your Letter, and the Birds -

The Maples never knew that you were coming - till I called

I declare - how Red their Faces grew -

But March, forgive me - and

All those Hills you left for me to Hue -

There was no Purple suitable -

You took it all with you -

Who knocks'? That April.

Lock the Door I will not be pursued He stayed away a Year to call When I am occupied But trifles look so trivial As soon as you have come

That Blame is just as dear as Praise

And Praise as mere as Blame -”
― Emily Dickinson, The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson

“Dear March,

most Awaited is your arrival,

You are the inspiration for revival!!

Winter鈥檚 farewell! Spring鈥檚 knocking鈥�

Tiptoeing Beauty, elegance and new beginnings..

I leave my old behind, embrace myself afresh and new..

To step into a brand novel chapter and year of life鈥檚 hue..

Sunflowers turn their course towards sun..

Courage and magic enriches new vigour, initiatives are marked done..

You choose, you pick up the best, happy and grateful..

Why linger on with dented, stale and awful?

Your time and journey are solely yours..

Possess and empower them with open hearts and doors鈥�

Power, blessings, happiness, Surety, agreements are waiting your hug.

Run and welcome them all, whisper aloud- Yes and find luck!!

-Dr Radhika Vijay (Originals)”
― Radhika Vijay

“March winds blew benevolent, and nearing the day of shamrock observance, with all its anxiousness and pomp due to the Orange menace, the snowdrops bloomed, and shoots of tulip bulbs angled towards the sky. And rain. The Village Crier had cried correctly---the Farmer's Almanac too---early spring!”
― Jeanette Lynes, The Apothecary's Garden

“These feelings don't just go away. They linger. Hover. They are with me always. Even at my most functioning...they are there, watching me. These emotions are my roommates now, bunking up beside me at night. They do not pay any rent...they are determined to ruin me, and yet I can never fully evict them from my brain.

I have tried -- really tried -- to chip away at my grief...But lately, I've just given up. I'm finally giving it permission to breathe and exist...

Most days now, they lie dormant in me. Sometimes it gets so quiet in my brain I think they've finally packed up and left. But every year as the calendar rounds the corner to March and the anniversary of her death approaches, anger bubbles again...I rage over the smallest of things, screaming behind the steering wheel of my car when another driver forgets to use their blinker. At first I'm perplexed, and then I remember: it's here again. And I am still mad. So mad. I can starve it, avoid it, rationalize it, manage it, talk about it in therapy, and eat it up in neat little points value. No matter how much weight I lose, I will never lose this one simple truth: I want my mom. I am so f***ing mad that she's gone. And that feeling will never, ever die.”
― Kate Spencer, The Dead Moms Club: A Memoir about Death, Grief, and Surviving the Mother of All Losses

“And the riverbank talks of the waters of March / It's the end of all strain, it's the joy in your heart."

--- From "Waters of March" by Antonio Carlos Jobim”
― Sarah Jio, The Violets of March

“Tomorrow," she said, "is the first of March, the month the sound is at its best, dear. It's absolutely alive."
I knew what she meant when she said it. The churning gray water. The kelp and the seaweed and the barnacles. I could almost the salty air. Bee believed that the Puget Sound was the great healer.”
― Sarah Jio, The Violets of March

“We'd hardly stepped three feet outside when Bee gasped, pointing to the garden to our right.
"Henry!" she exclaimed, surveying hundreds of delicate light green leaves that had pushed up from the soil in grand formation, showcasing a carpet of tiny lavender-colored flowers, with dark purple centers.
Bee looked astonished. "How did they... where did they come from?"
Henry shook his head. "I noticed them two weeks ago. They just appeared."
Bee turned to me, and upon seeing my confused face, she offered an explanation. "They're wood violets," she said. "I haven't seen them on the island since..."
"They're very rare," Henry said, filling the void that Bee had left when her voice trailed off. "You can't plant them, for they won't grow. They have to choose you."
Bee's eyes met Henry's, and she smiled, a gentle, forgiving smile. It warmed me to see it. "Evelyn has a theory about these flowers," she said, pausing as if to pull a dusty memory off a shelf in her mind, handling it with great care. "Yes," she said, the memory in plain view. "She used to say they grow where they are needed, that they signal healing, and hope.
It's ridiculous, isn't it, Henry, to think that violets can know," Bee continued.
Henry nodded. "Harebrained," he said in agreement.
Bee shook her head in disbelief. "And to see them in bloom, in March of all months..."
Henry nodded. "I know."
Neither took their eyes off the petals before them, so fragile, yet in great numbers stalwart and determined.”
― Sarah Jio, The Violets of March

“march
.. ..

CHOPPED SALAD

CABERNET-BRAISED SHORT RIBS WITH MIXED HERB GREMOLATA

GORGONZOLA POLENTA

LEMONY GREEN BEANS

MIXED BERRY TART”
― Whitney Gaskell, Table for Seven

“And that is what rulers are afraid of: that a people will discover the sheer joy of being together, that they will rediscover their shared humanity through their power in numbers, and they will experience in their embracing of a cause the pleasure of solidarity and of acting in their common interest.”
― Fr茅d茅ric Gros, A Philosophy of Walking

“I really was just an ordinary girl doing what she thought was right and what others thought was ridiculous.”
― Kailey Bright, Unity

“Spring鈥檚 an expansive time: yet I don鈥檛 trust
March with its peck of dust,
Nor April with its rainbow-crowned brief showers,
Nor even May, whose flowers
One frost may wither thro鈥� the sunless hours.”
― Christina Rossetti