Quotes About Flowers

The lily and the rose in her fair face striving for precedence.

I used to sing classical music to the flowers in the garden and imagine they were all different parts of the orchestra. It used to really annoy the neighbours.

The names of common flowers change from decade to decade, so I spent a lot of time with old outdated dictionaries, with awful flower names like 'mouse-eared chickweed.'

Amsterdam is such a fun, cool place, and it's very Instagrammable with the canals and the boats and the flowers and the architecture. It's amazing for outfit of the day shots.

To be overcome by the fragrance of flowers is a delectable form of defeat.

Beauty feeds us. Anarchy is beauty. We are against the grey people. We want to decorate, like those fantastic Indian lorries which are covered with flowers. Beauty must conquer the lust for order; order is ugliness.

offending either Bernie or Jim. First he would hand to whomever opened the door the big woven basket of fruit, flowers, and candies that Professor Louisa Bourbonette had arranged as their wedding gift, and then keep the conversation focused on what they had thought of Hawaii on their

And that night he couldn't sleep, but lay looking out at the light June night which was full of lonely whisperings and rustlings and the pattering of feet. The air was sweet with the smell of flowers.

This wasn't at all what I wanted to talk about, which is this: How did the rabbits get all covered with flowers?" "Tell them it's a secret. Tell them they don't need to know." "Exactly," said Anna. "You're right. That's the best thing you've said tonight. They don't need to know, and I don't want to know. So there!

It was an early, very warm morning in July, and it had rained during the night. The bare granite steamed, the moss and crevices were drenched with moisture, and all the colors everywhere had deepened. Below the veranda, the vegetation in the morning shade was like a rain forest of lush, evil leaves and flowers ...

Most of the people are homesick anyway, and a little lonely, and they hide themselves in their hair and are turned into flowers.

But flowers feed our soul in a different way. They remind us of a God who creates beautiful things and takes notice of the tiniest detail

Why the wild rushing delight? Why the bullocks? Far be it from me to offer an explanation ("In general those who try to explain pictures are entirely wrong," said Picasso to Juan Larrea) but I will mention a circumstance that may have some bearing on their presence: in mountain country the cattle usually stay out on the high pastures for the summer, and when the right season comes they are brought down, often with rejoicing and sometimes with wreaths of flowers about their horns.

A smell of old incense permeated the fabrics of the covers and cushions of an immense divan such as might have been used by court-musicians. One fancied that dust rose from it, gently enveloping us in a dry benevolent mist in which hung minute particles of the leaves and petals of garlands of flowers: jasmine, roses, frangipani and marigold, and all the names of Allah. One observer: a mouse. Are you afraid? I asked. No

She smiled over a heap of flowered summery lawn she had in her lap and threaded her needle again with pink silk.

This is the path we take in cultivating joy: learning not to armor our basic goodness, learning to appreciate what we have. Most of the time we don't do this. Rather than appreciate where we are, we continually struggle and nurture our dissatisfaction. It's like trying to get the flowers to grow by pouring cement on the garden.

And when thou art weary I'll find thee a bed, Of mosses and flowers to pillow thy head.

Art is the unceasing effort to compete with the beauty of flowers - and never succeeding.

Colour is the ultimate in art. It is still and will always remain a mystery to us, we can only apprehend it intuitively in flowers.

My dream is for my flowers to act as beacons and rallying points across the planet - bringing people together on a global scale and through my art start a global conversation.

By means of an image we are often able to hold on to our lost belongings. But it is the desperateness of losing which picks the flowers of memory, binds the bouquet.

When you transplant a rose, transplant the reddest one.

The scent of flowers is the glory of gardens and the scent of art is the glory of Paris!

Only an acceptance of both the flowers and the thorns can bring you peace. Peace, after all, is the fruit of total acceptance.