Quotes About Scent

Cloth will keep color best that is dyed in the wool, and the vessel will scent longest of that liquor with which it is first seasoned. Oh, then, remember your Creator in the days of your youth.

Love is not a hot-house flower, but a wild plant, born of a wet night, born of an hour of sunshine; sprung from wild seed, blown along the road by a wild wind. A wild plant that, when it blooms by chance within the hedge of our gardens, we call a flower; and when it blooms outside we call a weed; but, flower or weed, whose scent and colour are always, wild!

I hear the sounds of melting snow outside my window every night and with the first faint scent of spring, I remember life exists...

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet.

On the way to the train station, my mother said that she wasn't going to wash my sheets after I left. Sometimes, she said, she slept in my bed for one or two nights, because the bed still smelled like me. She smiled conspiratorially, and I felt my heart constrict.

The cracked white cups took pink lights as the sun, already descending, slanted across the cherry; the tree filled the air with its heavy scentlessness.

Another wave, and this one wet him to the knee, spray salting his cheek and lips. The flavor was as musky as the lamia's scent, salt and depth and thousands of deaths, over thousands of years, all washed down into the endless, consuming sea.

She smelled of clotted blood: iron and salt. I thought about iron and salt, and bindings and chains.

His laugh smelled of juniper and loam, and Kit's confused expression showed; it made the little elf laugh the harder.

He held the book close to his face, open, cupped in the palm of his hands, inhaling the oak-leaf scent of the pages.

When I leave the hall, I smell her before I see her, a scent that should be perfume. I know it is not.

Her scent wreathes round my head. Musk, and a field of pungent flowers. Heady, not sweet.

The boy still smells like Strifbjorn.

A Gallic-nosed fellow, slight with silver-shot dark curls and dark eyes, brushed rudely past them just as Jack returned from the top of the plank. He reeked of vertiver and musk; Jack's nose wrinkled as he passed, and he half-smiled at himself to realize how accustomed he'd become to the Puritan cleanliness of American colonials, and their aversion to heavy perfumes.

The scent is hot wine, acidic and intense. Spicy, irresistible.

He follows that scent-that hated, enticing, bittersweet scent-to its inevitable conclusion. A man, a man who does not serve. A man who threatens something the hound holds dear. A man who will not be permitted to continue.

It's not a scent, precisely, more a contagion, a trace of the passage of the one they hunt.

Jean was visited by one of her rare moments of happiness, one of those moments when the goodness of God was so real to her that it was like taste and scent; the rough strong taste of honey in the comb and the scent of water. Her thoughts of God had a homeliness that at times seemed shocking, in spite of their power, which could rescue her from terror or evil with an ease that astonished her.

The scent of a flower is a very close and intimate thing, she thought. It can seem to be a part of your body and blood.

The heaven had cried out for joy, and the earth had answered, and between the two the smell of the gorse rose up like ascending prayer and linked them together. Music and scent were alive once more in the world; only color tarried, waiting upon the sun.

I arrive home with pink flushed cheeks and glittering green-blue eyes. The hardest part is the his smell that lingers on my skin. He is here and yet he isn't here at all. It is only a trick of the mind; a terrible delusion that leaves me with pale, white arms grasping out into the shallow blunt, blackness for someone who is far away. Someone who leaves you feeling utterly and beautifully broken.

it seems impossible to me to describe even a short journey, for every step depends on other earlier steps and my whys and wherefores are as infinitesimal as atoms in the scent trails we leave in the air – negligible, not evidence, but there.

I pulled my wallet out and placed it on the bar, trying not to inhale as her scent wrapped around me. How had I not recognized it earlier? It was so strong, so sweet and familiar. So Clare. I breathed in slowly; she smelled like home.... Uh-oh, I'm in big trouble.

How is it that some people know how to do this, and others, like me, still give off the faint smell of what we came from? I would like to know. I will never know. Catherine, with her own scent that she always wore.