Quotes About Flowers

I would pick them when they bloomed. And when she called me home for supper, I'd place them in her hair and the contrast would take my breath away.

The flowers themselves were strong and hardy. They filled the green with color and thrived on Camp Lakeview's land. Together. They spent the summer, and every summer thereafter, swaying lazily in the breeze, frozen in time.

Back one hundred generations ago there was no people but Gypsies. Everything walked and talked. Flowers visited each other, so did rocks. As time passed they all lost their legs. Trouble didn't. It still walks anywhere it wants. So do Gypsies. —Madame

Back one hundred generations ago there was no people but Gypsies. Everything walked and talked. Flowers visited each other, so did rocks. As time passed they all lost their legs. Trouble didn't. It still walks anywhere it wants. So do Gypsies. ~ Madame Mina Szabo, as learned from her grandmother Jerry

As by some might be saide of me: that here I have but gathered a nosegay of strange floures, and have put nothing of mine unto it, but the thred to binde them. Certes, I have given unto publike opinion, that these borrowed ornaments accompany me; but I meane not they should cover or hide me...

Las flores son sólo órganos sexuales, vaginas abigarradas que adornan la superficie del mundo, entregadas a la lubricidad de los insectos.

Pity all newlyweds. She cooks something nice for him, and he brings her flowers, and they kiss and think: How easy marriage is.

If you go, go in Peace it makes the flowers sweeter along the path.

I had a serious conversation with the flowers and they told me where they came from. I was right. They were from the man who was secreted away in my heart. I missed him so much. I couldn't wait to see him again. But, at the same time, I was scared of him. Whenever I thought of him a little door in my heart banged shut and I felt like crying. I had no idea what was going on.

I love getting my nails done. My mom's best friend is a manicurist. When I was little, she'd do little paintings on my nails, like flowers.

Carnation, Lily, Lily, Rose by John Singer Sargent.

Bread feeds the body, indeed, but flowers feed also the soul.

You don't have a soul, so you can't be baptized. All animals are like that. I think it's unfair and sometimes I don't believe it. After all, what would heaven be without birds or dogs or horses? And what about trees and flowers? They don't have souls either. Does that mean heaven looks like a cement parking lot? I suppose this is what the nuns call a theological problem.

Someone is singing from the bed of red flowers, a lover recounting his past passion. What has happened, friends? The solitude of this house of flowers has been shattered, a broken wing is mourning its lost feathers and its flight through the universe.

The merciless scent of flowers was so heavy here that it hung like mist on the cold air. The room was crowded with flowers. In the centre, on three shrouded trestles, Robert Gospell's body lay in its coffin.

the buildings of the city blossoming and withering like flowers from the swamps of Edo

Music is storming, driving, relentless, devotional, slinky, subtle, heartbreakingly-beautiful sounds that, lyrically, switch from the cynical to the sanguine, the defeated to the defiant, dealing in love, war, beauty, children, romance, rejection, Pethedine, poetry, panties, God, Auden, Johnny Cash, cold potatoes, too-much-money, not enough money, writer's block, flowers, animals and more flowers. But maybe I'm projecting here.

What mattered was the truth, rising like birdsong, like the scent of flowers opening to the sun, of her wyrd. Cian's hand beneath hers. It always had been so. It had always been meant to be so. Fate goes over as it must.

The scent of spring flowers, delicate as lace, there and gone again. Utterly unlike Atlanta.

Mountainside, cloaked in falling straight into water as smooth and reflective as glass. You knew, looking at it, that it was a mile deep. Lush spring flowers, laughing sky. But changeable, and everywhere bones of rock. Good country in summer, but dangerous if approached without caution and, in winter, utterly isolated from the next valley by the mountains suddenly cloaked in ice and mist. Troll country.

STORM ENDING by Jean Toomer Thunder blossoms gorgeously above our heads, Great, hollow, bell-like flowers, Rumbling in the wind, Stretching clappers to strike our ears . . . Full-lipped flowers Bitten by the sun Bleeding rain Dripping rain like golden honey— And the sweet earth flying from the thunder.

Femeile iubesc foarte mult florile, da, e o ocupa?ie foarte pl?cut?!

My beloved is unto me as a bundle of myrrh, that lieth betwixt my breasts. My beloved is unto me as a cluster of henna flowers in the vineyards of Ein Gedi. —SONG OF SONGS, 1:13–14

O dearest Warsaw of my youth, Which encompassed the whole of my world! If only for a moment and in the dark I wish to catch a glimpse Of the ashes and the flowers Of that good past.10