Quotes About Scent

At a distance enjoy the fragrance of flowers.

Banul n-o fi avand miros, dar, Doamne! ce bine miroase.

The room has Nic's smell—not the sweet childhood smell he once had, but a cloying odor of incense and marijuana, cigarettes and aftershave, possibly a trace of ammonia or formaldehyde, the residual odor of burning meth. Smells like teen spirit.

We are still nearer the winter edge of spring on this cool and misty May afternoon, the scent of wood smoke in the air — a remnant of the afternoon fire.

I stepped closer still. He closed his eyes again and covered my hand with his own. 'You smell of violets. You always smell of violets,' he said. 'You've no idea how many times I have walked these moors and smelled them and thought you were near. On and on I walked, following the scent of you, and you were never there. When I saw you in the hall tonight, I thought I had finally gone mad.

The afternoon was brilliant, soft spring sunshine gilding the ancient stone to warm honey, and somewhere, tantalising, just out of reach, the scent of jasmine rose above the odours of donkey and charcoal and leather.

the rustle of yellow skirts and the scent of lemon verbena.

The night smelled like blackberry leaves and the ocean's nearness, something sweet and deep and full.

Jealousy smells like the water in the bottom of a flower vase after the flowers have died.

There's always been a wild quiet about Solly. It stays in the air near him like a scent.

The smell of opium is the least stupid smell in the world.

Then he has the idea that perhaps the scent is finite, and he fears he might use it all up, so he stops touching it.

What is the scent of water? Renewal. The goodness of God coming down like dew.

Oh, Séraphine, he purred, pushing his nose close to her jaw to inhale her righteous scent. Who do you suppose sits in Parliament? Who makes the laws, runs the government of this great and lofty nation, hmm? She hadn't bathed this morning, he could tell, and she smelled of herself: woman, sweat, sex. He licked across her cheek, tasting salt and pure saint, to her mouth. He bit her lips. Once, twice, a third time, wanting, craving .

He smelled the scent of roses and it nearly maddened him. Or perhaps he was already mad. "Run now," he whispered. She stared at him, refusing to move. "Very well," he snarled, and took her into his arms.

He paid scant attention to the conversation. He could smell his own sent on Anna's body, and it satisfied him in a primal way ... She gasped as he buried his nose in her maiden hair and inhaled. His scent was strongest here, in her gilded curls so soft and pretty in the morning light.

She nudged his arm to wash under it, where his dark hair grew in a swirl. Where the scent of his masculinity was the strongest. She shouldn't find this erotic. A lady shouldn't find this erotic. And yet she did. His lifted arms made the muscles move over his ribs stand out in intriguing ridges, and she wanted- rather badly, in fact- to lean down and inhale his scent.

I never could see that delicacy of constitution is pretty, either in plants or women. No doubt there are many lovely flowers to be had by heat and constant coaxing, but then for each of these there are fifty others still lovelier that will gratefully grow in God's wholesome air and are blessed in return with a far greater intensity of scent and colour.

but the greater part of my spring happiness is due to the scent of the wet earth and young leaves.

When I drive to the lupins and see them all spread out as far as eye can reach in perfect beauty of colour and scent and bathed in the mild August sunshine, I feel I must send for somebody to come and look at them with me, and talk about them to me, and share in the pleasure; and when I run over the list of my friends and try to find one who would enjoy them, I am frightened once more at the solitariness in which we each of us live.

Nature gets credit which should in truth be reserved for ourselves: the rose for its scent, the nightingale for its song; and the sun for its radiance. The poets are entirely mistaken. They should address their lyrics to themselves and should turn them into odes of self congratulation on the excellence of the human mind.

Thus nature gets credit which should in truth be reserved for ourselves: the rose for its scent: the nightingale for his song: the sun for its radiance. The poets are entirely mistaken. They should address their lyrics to themselves, and should turn them into odes of self-congratulation on the excellency of the human mind. Nature is a dull affair, soundless, scentless, colourless...

One might imagine it'd be unpleasant, being sealed inside a tree. One might imagine, ah, pining. But the scent lightens despair. It's perhaps a little like wearing a coat of armour except much nicer, because the armour is made of a substance through which the years themselves, formative, have run.

Oh, is that what I smell?" Mrs. McHenry said with a shudder. (For the record, our school smells just fine, unless of course your smelling ability has been irreparably damaged by a lifetime of sniffing perfume samples.)