Quotes About Flowers

If your heart is a volcano, how shall you expect flowers to bloom?

As for marigolds, poppies, hollyhocks, and valorous sunflowers, we shall never have a garden without them, both for their own sake, and for the sake of old-fashioned folks, who used to love them.

I'm an introvert... I love being by myself, love being outdoors, love taking a long walk with my dogs and looking at the trees, flowers, the sky.

I love spring flowers: daffodils and hyacinths are the ultimate flower for me. They are the essence of spring.

Love is to the heart what the summer is to the farmer's year. It brings to harvest all the loveliest flowers of the soul.

Like a great poet, Nature produces the greatest results with the simplest means. These are simply a sun, trees, flowers, water and love.

Love the moment. Flowers grow out of dark moments. Therefore, each moment is vital. It affects the whole. Life is a succession of such moments and to live each, is to succeed.

Without Valentine's Day, February would be... well, January.

The Labyrinth, a walled garden where humans tortured plants and flowers into growing in straight lines and sharp corners so unnatural that it hurt the mind to see, was east of Thorn's court, on the very edge of the Center Kingdom.

The place is changed now, and many familiar faces are gone, but the greatest change is myself. I was a child then, I had no idea what the world would be like. I wished to trust myself on the waters and the sea. Everything was romantic in my imagination. The woods were peopled by the mysterious good folk. The Lords and Ladies of the last century walked with me along the overgrown paths, and picked the old fashioned flowers among the box and rose hedges of the garden.

In Summer there were white and damask roses, and the smell of thyme and musk. In Spring there were green gooseberries and throstles [thrush], and the flowers they call ceninen [daffodils]. And leeks and cabbages also grew in that garden; and between long straight alleys, and apple-trained espaliers, there were beds of strawberries, and mint, and sage.

I liked the solitude and the silence of the woods and the hills. I felt there the sense of a presence, something undefined and mysterious, which was reflected in the faces of the flowers and the movements of birds and animals, in the sunlight falling through the leaves and in the sound of running water, in the wind blowing on the hills and the wide expanse of earth and sky.

Flowers have an expression of countenance as much as men and animals. Some seem to smile; some have a sad expression; some are pensive and diffident; others again are plain, honest and upright, like the broad-faced sunflower and the hollyhock.

There are crimes that, like frost on flowers, in one single night destroy character and reputation.

Sorrows are gardeners: they plant flowers along waste places, and teach vines to cover barren heaps.

Memory can glean, but can never renew. It brings us joys faint as is the perfume of the flowers, faded and dried, of the summer that is gone.

Avowed Marxist and tenured professor at the University of Texas, David Michael Smith, called capitalism "a system based on exploitation and oppression and domination and racism and war—and lots of other things."20 Right. And socialism is a system based on pretty butterflies and flowers and tolerance of all living creatures.

I'll take those for my room, Momma. They look fine to me." "They're not." "I don't mind." "Camille, I was just looking at them, and they're not good blooms." She dropped the pliers to the ground, began tugging at a stem. "But they're fine for me. For my room." "Oh, now look what you've done. I'm bleeding.

Here he uses the image of a sun (the masters) shining down from the Vast space of love and wisdom (their activities of body, speech and mind), to mature the minds of trainees (lotus flowers).

He couldn't tell that this was one of those occasions a man never forgets: a small cicatrice had been made on the memory, a wound that would ache whenever certain things combined - the taste of gin at mid-day, the smell of flowers under a balcony, the clang of corrugated iron, an ugly bird flopping from perch to perch.

I had seen the flowers on her dress beside the canals in the north, she was indigenous like a herb, and I never wanted to go home.

I remembered the ancient flowers Charles had given me near Trés Haut Médoc, cut from the Glass Sea beds. Now he offered me a bouquet of stars. After the weariness and grief, Charles could still take my breath away.

fuchsia-blooming crape myrtle trees, which are tended

It's the place of the story, beginning here, in the meadow of late summer flowers, thriving before the Atlantic storms drive wet and winter upon them all.