Quotes About Garden

Shall we compare our hearts to a garden — with beautiful blooms, straggling weeds, swooping birds and sunshine, rain — and most importantly, seeds.

Du hast vergessen, daß Liebende heilig sind. Auch wenn sie sich irren, Joh; selbst ihr Irrtum ist heilig. Auch wenn sie Narren sind, Joh; selbst ihre Narrheit ist heilig. Denn wo Liebende sind, ist der Garten Gottes, und niemand hat das Recht, sie daraus zu vertreiben. Nicht einmal Gott.

Outdoors next day, I was dizzy from a sense Of being ejected with some violence From vigil in a white and distant spot Where I was numb, into this garden plot Too warm, too close, and not enough like pain.

They love me like I was a brother They protect me, listen to me They dug me my very own garden Gave me sunshine, made me happy Nice dream, nice dream Nice dream

I have a garden, and I collect different heirloom seeds from different neighbors.

I take showers, I don't like them because I like baths in very nice jacuzzi or garden tubs.

She glanced over, watching her mother deadhead roses.

Paradise is precarious. Just one little thing …" He mimes a little shove. "Can push it into imbalance. It didn't take much to screw up the Garden of Eden.

The fruit of the garden is not restricted to what we eat. Every garden lends something more to the imagination - beauty.

Collige Virgo Rosas

The light struck upon the trees in the garden, making one leaf transparent and then another. One bird chirped high up; there was a pause; another chirped lower down. The sun sharpended the walls of the house, and rested like the tip of a fan upon a white blind and made a fingerprint of a shadow under the leaf by the bedroom window. The blind stirred slightly, but all within was dim and unsubstantial. The birds sang their blank melody outside.

Thus I hope to have kept the sound of the sea and the birds, dawn and garden subconsciously present, doing their work under ground.

What a vision of loneliness and riot the thought of Margaret Cavendish brings to mind! as if some giant cucumber had spread itself over all the roses and carnations in the garden and choked them to death.

What a phantasmagoria the mind is and meeting-place of dissemblables! At one moment we deplore our birth and state and aspire to an ascetic exaltation; the next we are overcome by the smell of some old garden path and weep to hear the thrushes sing.

Doesn't one always think of the past, in a garden with men and women lying under the trees? Aren't they one's past, all that remains of it, those men and women, those ghosts lying under the trees, ... one's happiness, one's reality?

Here we slept, she says. And he adds, Kisses without number. Waking in the morning - Silver between the trees - Upstairs - In the garden - When summer came - In winter snowtime - The doors go shutting far in the distance, gently knocking like the pulse of a heart.

She was almost felled to the ground by the extraordinary sight which now met her eyes. There was the garden and some birds. The world was going on as usual. All the time she was writing the world had continued.

Partly for that reason, its secrecy, complete and inviolable, he had found life like an unknown garden, full of turns and corners, surprising, yes; really it took one's breath away, these moments; there coming to him by the pillar-box opposite the British Museum one of them, a moment, in which things came together; this ambulance; and life and death.

The room grew suddenly several degrees darker, for the wind seemed to be driving waves of darkness across the earth. No one attempted to eat for a time, but sat looking out at the garden, with their forks in the air. The flashes now came frequently, lighting up faces as if they were going to be photographed, surprising them in tense and unnatural expressions.

All was dim, yet intense too, as if the scarf which the dusk had flung over the garden were torn asunder by star or sword - the flash of some terrible reality leaping, as its way is, out of the heart of the spring. For youth -

These garden graveyards are the most peaceful of our London sanctuaries and their dead the quietest.

It had seemed so safe, thinking of her. Ghost, air, nothingness, a thing you could play with easily and safely at any time of day or night, she had been that...Suddenly, the empty drawing-room steps, the frill of the chair inside, the puppy tumbling on the terrace, the whole wave and whisper of the garden became like curves and arabesques flourishing round a centre of complete nothingness.

Quién no piensa en el pasado en un jardín con hombres y mujeres tumbados bajo los árboles? ¿Acaso estos hombres y mujeres, estos fantasmas tumbados bajo los árboles, no son nuestro pasado, todo lo que queda de él..., nuestra felicidad, nuestra realidad?

In the garden of tabloid delight, there is always a clean towel and another song.