Quotes About Roses

In the slanting beams that streamed through the open doorway the dust danced and was golden. The heavy scent of the roses seemed to brood over everything.

I turned the dial back to sixteen, lifted the handle, and jerked the locker door open. Wendy let out an "Oh" and reached for the roses. Then she spun around and planted a kiss on me—right there in front of Jerry Bridges and Mr. Crowell and everybody. "Crimeny," Jerry said, and walked off. Mr. Crowell grinned and looked away. I just stood there with a stupid smile on my face, too far gone even to say, "Happy Valentine's Day.

Above us hung a tapestry of silver and gold and palest green that in my world had faded into white: a great oak so entwined with ivy it had died, its bare branches pushing through the leaves like bone. I stared at the roses, wanting to hold my hands to such red, but like the light, they burned cold.

Hexel's blue eyes were narrowed, his long, black hair looked suddenly windblown, though the candles behind him burned still. As a dramatist and composer, he had an exhausting passion for dramatics. He was lean, moody, intense; students at the music school constantly pushed notes under his door, or set his discarded scribbles to music, or dropped roses or themselves across his work.

I haven't much time to be fond of anything ... but when I have a moment's fondness to bestow, most times ... the roses get it. I began my life among them in my father's nursery garden, and I shall end my life among them, if I can. Yes. One of these days (please God) I shall retire from catching thieves, and try my hand at growing roses.

Saint-Lambert, it is all for thee The flower grows; The rose's thorns are all for me; For thee the rose.

A bit of fragrance always clings to the hand that gives roses.

Here the scent of fake roses was underscored with the bright iron reek of blood.

Like the withered roses of a once gay garland, the feelings of youth command in age a melancholy interest.

The Moment opens. The moment closes. There is sunlight. There is frost. There is the brief idea of roses amid the patch of weeds.

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.

Rose and lily, white and red, From my garden garlanded, These I brought and thought to grace The perfection of thy face. Other roses, pink and pale, Lilies of another vale, Thou hast bound around thy head In the garden of the dead.

An idealist is one who, on noticing that roses smell better than a cabbage, concludes that it will also make better soup.

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

When I was in Class VII, a boy from Class VI came to me with a bunch of roses and said, 'Didi, will you be my Valentine today?'

Other letters simply relate the small events that punctuate the passing of time: roses picked at dusk, the laziness of a rainy Sunday, a child crying himself to sleep. Capturing the moment, these small slices of life, these small gusts of happiness, move me more deeply than all the rest. A couple of lines or eight pages, a Middle Eastern stamp or a suburban postmark... I hoard all these letters like treasure.

The heart is so easily mocked, believing that the sun can rise twice or that roses bloom because we want them to.

Goodness often blossoms like roses on very rickety trellis-work, and beauty can grow out of nonsense.

Para que la luz manifieste su presencia, es necesario que un objeto material intercepte su trayecto. Estos «objetos» pueden ser los pétalos de una rosa, los pigmentos presentes en la paleta de un pintor, la retina de nuestro ojo o el espejo de un telescopio.

Be still. The Hanging Gardens were a dreamThat over Persian roses flew to kissThe curlèd lashes of Semiramis.Troy never was, nor green Skamander stream.

A smell of old incense permeated the fabrics of the covers and cushions of an immense divan such as might have been used by court-musicians. One fancied that dust rose from it, gently enveloping us in a dry benevolent mist in which hung minute particles of the leaves and petals of garlands of flowers: jasmine, roses, frangipani and marigold, and all the names of Allah. One observer: a mouse. Are you afraid? I asked. No

When you transplant a rose, transplant the reddest one.

Where is truth, forsooth, and who knoweth it? Is Beauty beautiful, or is it only our eyes that make it so? Does Venus squint? Has she got a splay-foot, red hair, and a crooked back? Anoint my eyes, good Fairy Puck, so that I may ever consider the Beloved Object a paragon! Above all, keep on anointing my mistress's dainty peepers with the very strongest ointment, so that my noddle may ever appear lovely to her, and that she may continue to crown my honest ears with fresh roses!

How now, my love? Why is your cheek so pale? How chance the roses there do fade so fast? Her. Belike for want of rain, which I could well beteem them from the tempest of my eyes.