Quotes About Fragrance

It had been a long time since I felt the fragrance of summer: the scent of the ocean, a distant train whistle, the touch of a girl's skin, the lemony perfume of her hair, the evening wind, faint glimmers of hope, summer dreams. But none of these were the way they once had been; they were all somehow off, as if copied with tracing paper that kept slipping out of place. -from Hear the Wind Sing

Gotas de chuva nas rosas e bigodes nos gatinhos.

Leía mucho, lo que no quiere decir que leyera muchos libros. Más bien prefería releer las obras que me habían gustado. (...) Así pues, no tenía este punto en común con los demás, y leía mis libros a solas y en silencio. Los releía y cerraba los ojos y me llenaban de su aroma. Sólo aspirando la fragancia de un libro, tocando sus páginas, me sentía feliz.

There was a scent called Five Minutes Before It Rains. If you put it on your neck, whoever kissed you would cry.

The language of roses shifts under our feet. It blows in and out like the wind. It carries the fragrance of the flower and then it is gone...It is how we learn to speak about something that is disappearing as we say its name.

Love is like a beautiful flower which I may not touch, but whose fragrance makes the garden a place of delight just the same.

FOR some inexplicable reason the sense of smell does not hold the high position it deserves among its sisters. There is something of the fallen angel about it. When it woos us with woodland scents and beguiles us with the fragrance of lovely gardens, it is admitted frankly to our discourse. But when it gives us warning of something noxious in our vicinity, it is treated as if the demon had got the upper hand of the angel, and is relegated to outer darkness, punished for its faithful service.

Les parfums sont de puissants magiciens pouvant vous transporter au travers des années que vous avez vécues.

Roses are red, Violets are blue; But they don't get around Like the dandelions do.

Somehow everything I own smells of you, and for the tiniest moment it's all not true

The splendor of the rose and the whiteness of the lily do not rob the little violet of its scent or the daisy of its simple charm.

dreams are like delicate little white flowers that will be blown away at the first breath of reality?

Now they both smiled. The sweet, light fragrance of a first youthful, half-unspoken love, with all its intoxicating tenderness, had awoken in them like a dream on which you reflect ironically when you wake, although you really wish for nothing more than to dream it again, to live in the dream. The beautiful dream of young love that ventures only on half-measures, that desires and dares not ask, promises and does not give. They

ezilmiÅŸ bir çiçekten yitip gitmiÅŸ bahar?n mis kokulu mucizesi nas?l anla??lmazsa, Madame de Prie'nin tarih olmuÅŸ yazg?s?n?n tutkulu çoÅŸkusu da sezilmiyordu bu sat?rlardan.

To me, flowers are happiness.

Beauty is the radiance of truth, and the frangrance of goodness.

A room full of words that are nearly the truth but not quite, each note fluttering off the steam of its rose like a broken butterfly wing.

The highest truth needs no communicating, for it is by its very nature self-propelling. It radiates its influence silently as the rose its fragrance without the intervention of a medium.

In the garden of my heartFlowers of loves were bloomingNot just to express the beauty But to spread the fragrance Of happiness.

The natural fragrance of her body was a spicy, angry smell like that of fresh pencil shavings.

The rag is sloshed in solvent with a psychotropic odor

They fell asleep holding each other and were wakened by a smell, comforting and maternal, of boiled milk and salt water.

The third week of June, and there it is again: the same almost embarrassing familiar breath of sweetness that comes every year about this time. I catch it on the warm evening air as I walk past the well-ordered gardens in my quiet street, and for a moment I am a child again and everything before me - all of the frightening, half-understood promises of life.

Ora li amava, questi libri rilegati con i dorsi all'italiana, i frontespizi, le illustrazioni ad acquerello, le copertine telate, amava il loro odore, perfino i loro scricchiolii quando li apriva in fetta, quasi si rompesse una serie di minuscole ossa invisibili.