Quotes About Flowers

For Orlando's taste was broad, he was no lover of garden flowers only; the wild and the weeds even had always a fascination for him.

As we are a doomed race, chained to a sinking ship, as the whole thing is a bad joke, let us, at any rate, do our part; mitigate the sufferings of our fellow-prisoners; decorate the dungeon with flowers and air-cushions; be as decent as we possibly can.

She was climbing up those branches, this way and that, laying hands on one flower and then another. Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose, she read, and so reading she was ascending, she felt, on to the top, on to the summit. How satisfying! How restful! All the odds and ends of the day stuck to this magnet; her mind felt swept, felt clean. And then there it was, suddenly entire; she held it in her hands, beautiful and reasonable, clear and complete, here—the sonnet.

As we are a doomed race, chained to a sinking ship (her favourite reading as a girl was Huxley and Tyndall, and they were fond of these nautical metaphors), as the whole thing is a bad joke, let us, at any rate, do our part; mitigate the sufferings of our fellow-prisoners (Huxley again); decorate the dungeon with flowers and air cushions; be as decent as we possibly can.

Were there not trees and grass? he asked. Were these not the signals of freedom? Had he not always leapt forward directly Miss Mitford started on her walk? Why was he a prisoner here? He paused. Here, he observed, the flowers were massed far more thickly than at home; they stood, plant by plant, rigidly in narrow plots.

Entonces se produjo el momento más exquisito de su vida, al pasar junto a una hornacina de piedra con flores. Sally se detuvo; cogió una flor; la besó en los labios. ¡Fue como si el mundo entero se hubiese puesto boca abajo! Los demás desaparecieron; ahí estaba ella a solas con Sally.

If the English language made any sense, lackadaisical would have something to do with a shortage of flowers.

The meek stars are brightening up heaven's blue deep, The low winds are rocking the flowers to sleep, And the leaflet's soft, rustling melody seems Like some echo that comes from a beautiful dream.

Calm is a bed where flowers grow.

The flowers were opulent, full-blown, topple shower petals at a touch. He thought that she might topple that way, falling all at once into his hand, a soft drift of blossom between his fingers. The roses bowed their extravagant heads, nodding, but she was all stiff prim and black, back in her bonnet, so that he could not see her face unless she looked directly at him.

Poesy is a beauteous damsel, chaste, honourable, discreet, witty, retired, and who keeps herself within the limits of propriety. She is a friend of solitude; fountains entertain her, meadows console her, woods free her from ennui, flowers delight her; in short, she gives pleasure and instruction to all with whom she communicates.

I don't trust the answers or the people who give me the answers. I believe in dirt and bone and flowers and fresh pasta and salsa cruda and red wine. I don't believe in white wine; I insist on color.

Even artificial flowers have a vase. Life is Beautiful. (Même les fleurs artificielles Ont un vase. La vie est belle.)

While the flowers, pale and unreal in the moonlight, floated away upon the river; and thus do greater things that once were in our breasts, and near our hearts, flow from us to the eternal sea.

I saw that the bride within the bridal dress has withered like the dress, and like the flowers, and had no brightness left but the brightness of her sunken eyes

That was a memorable day to me, for it made great changes in me. But it is the same with any life. Imagine one selected day struck out of it, and think how different its course would have been. Pause you who read this, and think for a moment of the long chain of iron or gold, of thorns or flowers, that would never have bound you, but for the formation of the first link on one memorable day

Diamonds on the petals, Silver on the stems, Early morning sunrise Turns dewdrops into gems.

Ladybugs all dressed in red Strolling through the flower bed. If I were tiny just like you I'd creep among the flowers too!

True, the poisonous breath of the world destroys our illusions, but they resuscitate at once when a ray of love falls upon our benumbed hearts, as the warmth of the sun revives the poor flowers withered by the ices of winter.

Nature's beautiful dancers — flowers, water, leaves Dancing to the music of a sweet gentle breeze...

Oh, come to the woods, the merry green woods, While gaily the autumn leaves fall. Just look overhead, 'mid leaves brown and red, The squirrels all chatter and call, "October is here, the Queen of the Year, Merry, merry, October!" Oh, out in the woods, the merry green woods, The fairies their revels will keep; Then, when it is dark, comes the Frost Spirit—hark! He is singing the flowers to sleep! "October is here, the Queen of the Year, Merry, merry October!"

To me it seems that youth is like spring, an overpraised season — delightful if it happen to be a favoured one, but in practice very rarely favoured and more remarkable, as a general rule, for biting east winds than genial breezes. Autumn is the mellower season, and what we lose in flowers we more than gain in fruits.

The pollen-dusted bees Search for the honey-lees That linger in the last flowers of September, While plaintive mourning doves Coo sadly to their loves Of the dead summer they so well remember.

It was a bright September afternoon, The parched-up beech trees would be yellowing soon, The yellow flowers grown deeper with the sun Were letting fall their petals one by one...