Quotes About Roses

In the season of white wild roses We two went hand in hand: But now in the ruddy autumn Together already we stand.

LONELINESS I too have known loneliness. I too have known what it is to feel misunderstood, rejected, and suddenly not at all beautiful. Oh, mother earth, your comfort is great, your arms never withhold. It has saved my life to know this. Your rivers flowing, your roses opening in the morning. Oh, motions of tenderness!

Are the roses not also--even as the owl is--excessive? Each flower is small and lovely, but in their sheer and silent abundance the roses become an immutable force, as though the work of the wild roses was to make sure that all of us, who come wandering over the sand, may be, for a while, struck to the heart and saturated with a simple joy.

I want to sit down on the sand and look around and get dreamy; I want to see what spirits are peeking out of the faces of the roses.

Only last week I went out among the thorns and said to the wild roses: deny me not, but suffer my devotion. Then, all afternoon, I sat among them.

Now the fire rises and offers a dozen, singing, deep-red roses of flame.

the faint-pink roses that have never been improved, but come to bud then open like little soft sighs

Oh, mother earth, your comfort is great, your arms never withhold. It has saved my life to know this. Your rivers flowing, your roses opening in the morning.

I too have known loneliness. I too have known what it is to feel misunderstood, rejected, and suddenly not at all beautiful. Oh, mother earth, your comfort is great, your arms never withhold. It has saved my life to know this. Your rivers flowing, your roses opening in the morning. Oh, motions of tenderness!

Their melancholy is soothing, and their joy elevating, to a degree I never experienced in studying the authors of any other country. When you read ther writings, life appears to consist in a warm sun and a garden of roses, in the smiles and frowns of a fair enemy, and the fire that consumes your own heart. How different from the manly and heroical poetry of Greece and Rome!

It was nearing 9 O'clock, and the fist duck was drawing down. Behind the trees, the first star pricked out, low and brilliant. The light breeze of the day had dropped, and the evening was very still. The stream sounded loud. I walked down to the gate and stood leaning on the top bar, enjoying the scent of the roses, and straining to listen for any sound from the lane or the road beyond.

Honor women: They wreathe and weave Heavenly roses into earthly life. —Johann von Schiller

Roses are red, violets are blue, sugar is sweet, but Carrie White eats shit.

We see in part, and thus is the mirror of prophecy darkened." There are other worlds, gunslinger, and other demons. These waters are deep. Watch for the doorways. Watch for the roses and the unfound doorways.

How I would love to be transported into a scented Elizabethan garden with herbs and honeysuckles, a knot garden and roses clambering over a simple arbor.

Love lies bleeding in the bed whereover Roses lean with smiling mouths or pleading: Earth lies laughing where the sun's dart clove her: Love lies bleeding.

If you ever land in a cave full of rock trolls, remember not to breathe deep. The air trapped in that cave hasn't been around any roses.

They are not long, the weeping and the laughter,Love and desire and hate:I think they have no portion in us afterWe pass the gate.They are not long, the days of wine and roses;Out of a misty dreamOur path emerges for a while, then closesWithin a dream.

I have forgot much, Cynara! gone with the wind,Flung roses, roses riotously with the throng.

Hoje roubei todas as rosas dos jardins e cheguei ao pé de ti de mãos vazias.

It's urgent-love. It's urgent- a boat upon the sea. It's urgent to destroy certain words, hate, solitude, and cruelty, some mornings, many swords. It's urgent to invent a joyfulness, multiply kisses and cornfields, discover roses and rivers and glistening mornings- it's urgent. Silence and an impure light fall upon our shoulders till they ache. It's urgent- love, it's urgent to endure.

Last summer the plant was larger than ever. The vines ranged up to the roof on a trellis I had made. I anticipated more roses than ever. But I was disappointed. The blossoms were small and scrawny.

On either side the wild roses, their pink dewy faces turned to the sun, tumbled over the fences, sprawled on the ground and filled the air with their pure summery smell.

Most effectively, and gruesomely, the skull of an elephant hung on a rafter, and a bouquet of dried creamy pink roses emerged from the central hole in the hull of its cranium - like the exploding brains of a dying animal, he couldn't help thinking; remembering Elphaba's youthful concerns. Or maybe an homage to the putative magical talents of elephants?