Quotes About Garden

The picture is of happiness, the story not. Happiness is a garden walled with glass: there's no way in or out. In Paradise there are no stories, because there are no journeys. It's loss and regret and misery and yearning that drive the story forward, along its twisted road.

A Tennyson garden, heavy with scent, languid; the return of the word swoon.

There is something subversive about this garden of Serena's, a sense of buried things bursting upwards, wordlessly, into the light, as if to point, to say: Whatever is silenced will clamor to be heard, though silently.

They never knew, about that or why I left. Their own innocence, the reason I couldn't tell them; perilous innocence, closing them in glass, their articial garden, greenhouse. They didn't teach us about evil, they didn't understand about it, how could I describe it to them? They were from another age, prehistoric, when everyone got married and had a family, children growing in the yard like sunowers; remote as Eskimoes or mastodons.

Up and down our lives obedient Walk, dear Christ, with footsteps radiant, Till those garden lives shall be Fair with duties done for Thee; And our thankful spirits say, "Christ arose on Easter Day."

A late summer garden has a tranquility found no other time of the year.

Never give up on intimate friendships or science or nature. They have always saved us, and they will again. And love is the mastermind of it all... We need to stop racing and to savor beauty, to look up from our screens at the weather, one another's faces, the ocean, the desert, a garden, and architecture, which is another kind of garden.

In the Savage Garden you shine beautifully, my friend. You walk as if it is your garden to do with as you please. And in my wanderings, I always return to you. I always return to see the colours of the garden in your shadow, or reflected in your eyes, perhaps, or to hear of your latest follies and mad obsessions.

You let me handle Marius, I said. Now, you didn't come without you dagger. No, I did not, he said, lifting his cloak to reveal it, And with your permission I would like to plunge it through my heart now so I will most assuredly stone-cold dead before the Master of this house arrives home to find you runnning rampant in his garden! Permission denied.

And I knew my vision of the garden of savage beauty had been a true vision. There was meaning in the world, yes, and laws, and inevitability, but they had only to do with the aesthetic...A thousand other things can be said about [this Savage Garden], but only aesthetic principles can be verified, and these things alone remain the same.

And I knew my vision of the garden of savage beauty had been a true vision. There was meaning in the world, yes, and laws, and inevitability, but they had only to do with the aesthetic. And in this Savage Garden, these innocent ones belonged in the vampire's arms. A thousand other things can be said about the world, but only aesthetic principles can be verified, and these things alone remain the same.

Good and evil, those are concepts man has made. And man is better, really, than the Savage Garden.

In memory I went back to the days in Rome when I had been mortal, and there was my garden, the garden of the villa of my father, and I was walking in the soft grass and listening to the sound of the fountain, and then it seemed that all through time, the garden changed but never changed, and it was always there for me.

It was the spacious garden I loved to paint above all, with no painted frame to set it apart from our world with its dancing figures and bending laurels. It was the familiar garden. For I imagined I could escape into it with my mind.

It was a drunken labyrinth of a garden gone wild under the naked night.

Allow me to watch at the garden window in silence as you paint your walls.

If her time had been her own, she would have worked in the garden. That always soothed her spirits.

I alternate between thinking of the planet as home - dear and familiar stone hearth and garden - and as a hard land of exile in which we are all sojourners.

Where have I been while this person is leading my life with her patience, will and order? In the garden; on the bee and under the bee; in the crown gathering cumulus and flensing it from the boughs

Language to me is a tool a very clumsy tool. And words are garden tools with which to till the soil of one's life.

Beauty is what I feel my life is about - the garden, the house, whatever. I see the world that way, yet it isn't.

RememberWhen we last gathered roses in the garden,I found my wits; but truly you lost yours.

The tints of autumn...a mighty flower garden blossoming under the spell of the enchanter, frost.

The white tree on the bluff over the ocean was hung with icicles like curtains of glass, creaking faintly in the wind. Morgan's cottage, once they passed through the icy snowless beech wood, was white as bone and black as aged oak among the weathered stems of the garden.