Quotes About Flowers

I grow all kinds of annuals. I have a nice perennial border in the front of the house.

Prime?te-acum de ziua tristei s?rb?tori potirul meu cu lacrimi,bra?ul meu de flori, s? fii în moarte,vie-numai trandafiri...

Spring has come when you can put your foot on three daisies

God waits to win back his own flowers as gifts from man's hands.

In your body is the garden of flowers. Take your seat on the thousand petals of the lotus, and there gaze on the Infinite Beauty.

Pride engraves his frowns in stones; love offers her surrender in flowers.

Spring scatters the petals of flowers that are not for the fruits of the future, but for the moment's whim.

for love is a vagabond, who can make his flowers bloom in the wayside dust, better than in the crystal jars kept in the drawing-room.

Like my heart's pain that has long missed its meaning, the sun's rays robed in dark hide themselves under the ground. Like my heart's pain at love's sudden touch, they change their veil at the spring's call and come out in the carnival of colors, in flowers and leaves.

Flower-shopping is a ladylike occupation that does not involve getting your hands dirty; it is about supplying the house with beauty, not scrubbing it clean.

Over the years, the idea seems to have grown up that brightly coloured flowers are vulgar, and that the only flowers to be admitted to the walled garden of good taste are discreet and pastel-hued.

Nothing can beat the smell of dew and flowers and the odor that comes out of the earth when the sun goes down.

Ne parlons pas de toi. Tu es ineffable selon ta nature. D'autres fleurs ornent la table que tu transfigures. On te met dans un simple vase -, voici que tout change: c'est peut-être la même phrase, mais chantée par un ange.

Oh trees of life, when will your winter come? We're not in tune. Not like migratory birds. Outmoded, late, in haste, we force ourselves on winds which let us down upon indifferent ponds. Though we've had to learn how flowering is fading, somewhere lions still roam, unaware, in their majesty, of any weakness. — Rainer Maria Rilke, from the "Fourth Elegy," Duino Elegies . Trans. by David Young. (W. W. Norton & Company; 1 edition, June 17, 2006) Originally published 1923.

Who says that all must vanish? Who knows, perhaps the flight of the bird you wound remains, and perhaps flowers survive caresses in us, in their ground. It isn't the gesture that lasts, but it dresses you again in gold armor--from breast to knees-- and the battle was so pure an Angel wears it after you.

We are made aware that magnitude of material things is relative, and all objects shrink and expand to serve the passion of the poet. Thus, in his sonnets, the lays of birds, the scents and dyes of flowers, he finds to be the shadow of his beloved; time, which keeps her from him, is his chest; the suspicion she has awakened, is her ornament

Bees do have a smell, you know, and if they don't they should, for their feet are dusted with spices from a million flowers.

Who wants to see the Future, who ever does? A man can face the Past, but to think- the pillars crumbled , you say? And the sea empty, and the canals dry, and the maidens dead, and the flowers withered?

Who wants to see the Future, who ever does? A man can face the Past, but to think - the pillars crumbled, you say? And the sea empty, and the canals dry, and the maidens dead, and the flowers withered? The Martian was silent, but then he looked ahead. But there they are. I see them. Isn't that enough for me? They wait for me now, no matter what you say.

So along the road those flowers spread that, when touched, give down a shower of autumn rust. By every path it looks as if a ruined circus had passed and loosed a trail of ancient iron at every turning of a wheel. The rust was laid out everywhere, strewn under trees and by riverbanks and near the tracks themselves where once a locomotive had gone but went no more. So flowered flakes and railroad track together turned to moulderings upon the rim of autumm.

Who wants to see the Future, who ever does? A man can face the Past, but to think—the pillars crumbled, you say? And the sea empty, and the canals dry, and the maidens dead, and the flowers withered?" The Martian was silent, but then he looked on ahead. "But there they are. I see them. Isn't that enough for me? They wait for me now, no matter what you say." And

They picked the golden flowers. The flowers that flooded the world, dripped off lawns onto brick streets, tapped softly at crystal cellar windows and agitated themselves so that on all sides lay the dazzle and glitter of molten sun. Every year, said Grandfather. They run amuck; I let them. Pride of lions in the yard. Stare, and they burn a hole in your retina. A common flower, a weed that no one sees, yes. But for us, a noble thing, the dandelion.

It was an evening in summer upon the placid and temperate planet Mars. Up and down green wine canals, boats as delicate as bronze flowers drifted. In

Bees do have a smell, you know, and if they don't they should, for their feet are dusted with spices from a million flowers.