Quotes About Roses

AND I WENT TO THE LIBRARY, I'M SNEAKING IN THE LIBRARY, LOOKING THROUGH THE BOOKS, AND YOU KNOW, LIKE I'M COVERING THE BOOK WITH LIKE SOMETHING ELSE. AND THEN IT'S LIKE, "ADMIRE IT, IT'S A BEAUTIFUL FLOWER, YOU KNOW, IT'S LIKE ROSES." . I'M LIKE, WE'R E NOT LOOKING AT THE SAME THING I TOOK PHOTOS OF IT.

And Unto thine eyes my heart Sendeth old dreams of the spring-time, Yea of wood-ways my rime Found thee and flowers in and of all streams That sang low burthen, and of roses, That lost their dew-bowed petals for the dreams We scattered o'er them passing by.

Today in my heart a vague trembling of stars and all roses are as white as my pain.

Gotas de chuva nas rosas e bigodes nos gatinhos.

When I die, I will send down a shower of roses from the heavens,I will spend my heaven by doing good on earth.

She is better, she is safer, if she rests in Richmond; if she does not speak too much, write too much, feel too much; if she does not travel impetuously to London and walk through its streets; and yet she is dying this way, she is gently dying on a bed of roses.

If you love the roses, that is ordinary; if you love the weeds, that is extraordinary! Rather than being common, be extraordinary!

The heads of roses begin to droop. The bee who has been hauling her gold all day finds a hexagon in which to rest.

I don't know what everybody else was fantasizing about but what I was fantasizing about was a nine-to-five existence, a house on a tree-lined block with a white picket fence, pink roses in the backyard. [...] After a while you learn that privacy is something you can sell, but you can't buy it back.

Talking to yourself? Her father turned the corner of the house to join her amid the rows of roses. Sneaking was evil, she decided. No. I was… just conversing with the new rosebush, she stammered, feeling her cheeks warm. Ah. And did it answer? I believe it to be shy. If it everdoesanswer, you will inform me, won't you ? Very amusing.

That afternoon my mother had brought me the roses. Save them for my funeral, I'd said.

I, love, I am the pure acetylene virgin attended by roses.

Love, love, I have hung our cave with roses.

Winter is for women — The woman, still at her knitting, At the cradle of Spanish walnut, Her body a bulb in the cold and too dumb to think. Will the hive survive, will the gladiolas Succeed in banking their fires To enter another year? What will they taste of, the Christmas roses? The bees are flying. They taste the spring. — Sylvia Plath, from "Wintering," Ariel . (Harper & Row 1966)

Ash on an old man's sleeve, Is all the ash the burnt roses leave. Dust in the air suspended Marks the place where a story ended, Dust in breathed was a house- The wall, the wainscot and the mouse. The death of hope and despair, This is the death of air.

Blood and roses, the sunlight came in through the panes, touching her face with a color it did not have.

The money I pay for my cultural experiences came willingly from my own pocket - they were not the result of bread being removed from the mouths of the poor so that Miss Thing here could mince off to the circus smelling of roses.

I hated roses. I hated them for being so trite, so clichéd, a default, all-purpose flower that said I love you, I'm sorry, and get well soon. Give me peonies and tulips, orchids or gardenia. Those were flowers with character.

Now, conceding that Prosper was at least 40 percent full of the stuff that makes roses grow, that still left quite a lot of sheer unparalleled genius.

There are fairy lights set up around the garden, shining like miniature stars among the roses and making them seem to glow translucently in the fading light. It's such a beautiful, calm space. ", FADE by Kailin Gow

My mother says that pain is hidden in everyone you see. She says try to imagine it like big bunches of flowers that everyone is carrying around with them. Think of your pain like a big bunch of red roses, a beautiful thorn necklace. Everyone has one.

My life is part humor, part roses, part thorns.

Truths and roses have thorns about them.

Her nature had, in her conceit, a certain garden-like quality, a suggestion of perfume and murmuring boughs, of shady bowers and lengthening vistas, which made her feel that introspection was, after all, an exercise in the open air, and that a visit to the recesses of one's spirit was harmless when one returned from it with a lapful of roses.