Quotes About Flowers

I should like the flowers very very much, if I didn't keep on thinking they'd be all withered in a few days!

putting at the foot also a bunch of the same flowers in a little jar of water to keep them alive. What matter was it that on the outside of the jar the eye of mere observation noted the words 'Keelwell's Marmalade'? The eye of maternal affection did not see them in its vision of higher things.

The season developed and matured. Another year's instalment of flowers, leaves, nightingales, thrushes, finches, and such ephemeral creatures, took up their positions where only a year ago others had stood in their place when these were nothing more than germs and inorganic particles.

He could see that he had too many flowers in the room, and must add more to make it come back right again. Too many flowers was too many, but way too many was just right.

He was a very good gardener, understood flowers, and knew how to make things grow. What is more, he liked this kind of work almost as much as painting.

The moon looks upon many night- flowers, the night flower sees but one moon.

Everything glimmers, edges are extremely clear, illumination is low and very pure. Small clusters of white flowers peep out wherever you look. Everything blooms.

The mind I love must have wild places, a tangled orchard where dark damsons drop in the heavy grass, an overgrown little wood, the chance of a snake or two, a pool that nobody's fathomed the depth of, and paths threaded with flowers planted by the mind.

As for the roses, you could not help feeling they understood that roses are the only flowers that impress people at garden-parties; the only flowers that everybody is certain of knowing.

En cuanto a las rosas, daba la sensación de que sabían muy bien que eran las únicas flores capaces de impresionar a los invitados; son las únicas flores que todos conocen. Cientos, sí, literalmente cientos se habían abierto durante la noche; los verdes rosales se doblegaban bajo su peso como si los hubiesen visitado unos arcángeles.

How long did they stand there? Both, as it were, caught in that circle of unearthly light, understanding each other perfectly, creatures of another world, and wondering what they were to do in this one with all this blissful treasure that burned in their bosoms and dropped, in silver flowers, from their hair and hands?

The mind I love must have wild places, a tangled orchard where dark damsons drop in the heavy grass, an overgrown little wood, the chance of a snake or two, a pool that nobody's fathomed the depth of, and paths threaded with flowers planted by the mind.

Dad told me, 'Mommy doesn't need antidepressants, you see. She needs flowers and sometimes she needs antiques.

then flats of marigolds and petunias. Made of sterner stuff, I figured, their sort might survive my regime of horticultural neglect.

He stooped to put flowers on his stepmother's tomb, Thinking she'd changed since meeting her doom. He died when her gravestone fell on his head. Stepmothers are dangerous even when dead.

Quiet is no certain pledge of permanence and safety. Trees may flourish and flowers may bloom upon the quiet mountain side, while silently the trickling rain-drops are filling the deep cavern behind its rocky barriers, which, by and by, in a single moment, shall hurl to wild ruin its treacherous peace.

Green trees against the sky in the spring rain while the sky set off the spring trees in the obscuration. Red flowers dot the land in the breeze's chase while the land colored up in red after the kiss.

While Maddox now believed the demon did not want to hurt Ashlyn, he wasn't willing to take a chance. He would talk about flowers and moonbeams - he cringed - if it meant maintaining this delectable inner peace. "Is there a way to break your death-curse?" Ashlyn asked. So much for flowers and moon-beams.

Fresh flowers bloomed from vases, sweetly scenting the air. Again, he had no idea. Fine. He'd requested those. That shit smelled good.

And I know, sometimes storms were necessary. Even flowers needed to be watered. But... yeah.

Paris, keeper of Promiscuity, enjoyed romance novels), and weird silver lamps that twisted and curved over the chairs; he had no idea who those were for. Fresh flowers bloomed from vases, sweetly scenting the air. Again, he had no idea. Fine. He'd requested those. That shit smelled good. Gideon

That, of al the floures in the mede,Thanne love I most thise floures white and rede,Swiche as men callen daysyes in our toun.

May, with alle thy floures and thy grene,Welcome be thou, faire, fresshe May.

You look . . . You look." I cracked up. "And whatever the hell that scent is from those flowers is driving me crazy." He took my crown off and looked at me. "Nope. Not the flowers.