Quotes About Roses

I can't pass a plant stall without feeling I must have one. But my greatest extravagance, I suppose, is roses. We've got masses.

I personally think that a bouquet of white roses is simple, chic, and surprisingly long-lasting.

They were roses, and they were saboteurs of my own long acceptance of a conventional version of Orwell and invitations to dig deeper. They were questions about who he was and who we were and where pleasure and beauty and hours with no quantifiable practical result fit into the life of someone, perhaps of anyone, who also cared about injustice and truth and human rights and how to change the world.

Tu as rdv la viande, la salade, les fruits. Tu m'as dit : - Vous mangez de la bête! ... Vous mangez de l'herbe! ... Vous mangez de l'arbre! ... J'ai essayé de sourire. J'ai répondu : - Nous sommes des barbares... J'ai fait venir des roses. Tu as cru que cela aussi nous le mangions...

And then two footmen staggered forward. They were bearing between them a flower arrangement so brilliant it was nearly 'sentient.' A profusion of roses, the heads of which were nearly as pulsatingly crimson and large as actual hearts sprung from a luxurious froth of ferny greenery and minuscule lacy white flowers. It was magnificently intimidating and almost indecently sensual. The whole thing was the height of a three-year-old child.

And she reached out with trembling fingers and touched one of the roses. It was, surprisingly... unconscionably soft. A message was sent along with it, Miss Genevieve. Harriet handed over the sheet of folded foolscap, closed with a blob of wax. No seal was pressed into it. Genevieve slid her finger beneath it to break the seal. 'My esteemed Venus- These reminded me of you. In my dreams, your lips are just this soft. - Your devoted servant, Mars

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.

In the mouths of many men soft words are like roses that soldiers put into the muzzles of their muskets on holidays.

The man who accepts the laissez-faire doctrine would allow his garden to grow wild so that roses might fight it out with the weeds and the fittest might survive.

the most common type of pessimism is neither philosophical nor religious: it is the pessimism of thwarted desire. ... It is the cynical sneer of the man who, seeking roses, finds only ashes.

Roses by the head, jasmine at the feet so appear the longings that have passed without being satisfied, not one of them granted a night of sensual pleasure, or one of its radiant mornings.

To feel keenly the poetry of a morning's roses, one has to have just escaped from the claws of this vulture which we call sickness.

Such a morning it is when love leans through geranium windows and calls with a cockerel's tongue. When red-haired girls scamper like roses over the rain-green grass, and the sun drips honey.

As a child, our house had a backyard lined with roses tended vigilantly by my mother. So the fragrance fills me with nostalgia for my youth.

We were made to enjoy music, to enjoy beautiful sunsets, to enjoy looking at the billows of the sea and to be thrilled with a rose that is bedecked with dew.

What the woman who labors wants is the right to live, not simply exist ... the right to life, and the sun and music and art ... The worker must have bread, but she must have roses too.

The loveliest roses sometimes bear the ugliest thorns.

God gave us our memories so that we might have roses in December.

As a human being it is just my nature to enjoy and share philosophy. I do this in the same way that some birds are eagles and some doves, some flowers lilies and some roses.

The smile of roses expresses the beauty of the heart.

You only walk this path once. Make sure you take time to stop and enjoy the nice things. You can't smell last years roses.

Never forget to stop and drink the beauty of roses to get drunk for a few moments of life.

We can complain because rose bushes have thorns, or rejoice because thorn bushes have roses.

At our age the imagination across the sorry facts lifts us to make roses stand before thorns. Sure love is cruel and selfish and totally obtuse— at least, blinded by the light, young love is. But we are older, I to love and you to be loved, we have, no matter how, by our wills survived to keep the jeweled prize always at our finger tips. We will it so and so it is past all accident.