Quotes About Petal

Everything smelled of sheep. The dandelions were suddenly more sheep than flower, each petal reflecting wool and the sound of a bell ringing off the yellow. But the thing that smelled the most like sheep, was the very sun itself. When the sun went behind a cloud, the smell of the sheep decreased, like standing on some old guy's hearing aid, and when the sun came back again, the smell of the sheep was loud, like a clap of thunder inside a coffee cup. (from On Paradise, page 50)

Song like a rose should be; Each rhyme a petal sweet; For fragrance, melody, That when her lips repeat The words, her heart may know What secret makes them so. Love, only Love.

I like my thingshurried and haunted. Night teadarktime. Sacred geometry, secret geometrypetal-flame whisper: I am here, and you aren't.

It is at the edge of the petal that love waits

The exceeding beauty of the earth, in her splendour of life, yields a new thought with every petal. The hours when the mind is absorbed by beauty are the only hours when we really live, so that the longer we can stay among these things so much the more is snatched from inevitable Time.

I will use a flower petal for paper, And write you the sweetest letter, You are the sultan of my heart, Sultan of my heart.

J'utiliserai un pétale pour papier Et t'écrirai les mots les plus doux Tu es le sultan de mon coeur Le sultan de mon coeur.

Somewhere the sense makes copper roses steel roses — The rose carried weight of love but love is at an end — of roses It is at the edge of the petal that love waits.

Life is a stream On which we strew Petal by petal the flower of our heart; The end lost in dream, They float past our view, We only watch their glad, early start. Freighted with hope, Crimsoned with joy, We scatter the leaves of our opening rose; Their widening scope, Their distant employ, We never shall know. And the stream as it flows Sweeps them away, Each one is gone Ever beyond into infinite ways. We alone stay While years hurry on, The flower fared forth, though its fragrance still stays.

Once a blooming red rose, full of streaming life in its veins. Now a wilting black petal rupturing with death and pain.

Life is a stream On which we strew Petal by petal the flower of our heart.

For each petal on the shamrock This brings a wish your way - Good health, good luck, and happiness For today and every day.

She looked the way a rose petal looks when you crush it between finger and thumb.

Ah, the ancient language of sarcasm. How it suits you." "Why thank you, petal. It is one of my many talents, and I happen to be fluent in the language." I dazzled him with my smile. "You need to give me a manly nickname." "You haven't given me any reason to give you one yet." "That's harsh.

I named my kitten Rose — fur soft as a petal, claws sharper than thorns.

It was as if the light had coaxed a flowering from the frost, which before seemed barren and parched as salt. The grass shone with petal colors, and water drops spilled from all the trees as innumerably as petals.

Maybe I'd started thinking again about Y?ko and what she was like, the translucent silhouette of a petal fluttering down to the ground against the glare of the sun—a petal from a flower named gentleness.

Our eyes reflect light. Better that the lips are more like a rose petal.

Lipstick is so feminine, but there's nothing worse than having a dark merlot stain on a fresh coat of petal pink lipstick.

Every now and then we enter the presence of the numinous and deduce for an instant how we're formed, in what detail the force that infuses every petal might specifically run through us, wishing only to lure us into our full potential.

He liked walls the color of some creature's muted underside or the soft inner petal of a plant, slippery leather banquettes and a silky curl of gravlax served on a slick white plate.

Expectation is the hoary curse of humanity. One can listen to words, and see them as the unfolding of a petal or, indeed, the very opposite: each word bent and pushed tighter, smaller, until the very packet of meaning vanishes with a flip of deft fingers. Poets and tellers of tales can be tugged by either current, into the riotous conflagration of beauteous language or the pithy reduction of the tersely colourless.

You live only in the imagination of the one who created you, and have no past other than that. Your life is bright, fluttering dream, a butterfly against the sky, a spiralling petal falling down from a high branch, a falling snowflake approaching a hot coal. No more than this. You have never been alive.

Life is a dance that concludes on its own schedule. And so there we sit, keeping each other company as we wait for the last petal to fall.