Quotes About Roses

Then let thy love be younger than thyself, Or thy affection cannot hold the bent: For women are as roses, whose fair flower, Being once display'd, doth fall that very hour.

Ho colto una rosa bianca per il mio amore; Ho colto una rosa rossa nel vento. L'amore nel mio cuore tenta di dimostrare Ciò che il tuo cuore sa già, lo sento. Ho punto su una spina il dito, Ho punto un dito con il sangue. Rosso è mio cuore, ferito e tradito Del tuo cuore ha bisogno, esangue. Sulla lingua il dito ho tenuto Il dito ho tenuto e aspettato Il mio cuore nel dolore caduto Dal tuo amore d'essere salvato.»

And I will make thee beds of rosesAnd a thousand fragrant posies.

Keylock to arrange a delivery of roses from Chivers the Florist 'whenever Brian seems down'.

Tu es comme l'odeur des roses (…) tu ôtes l'appétit.

I shall have everything ... and I shall lean over the edge of a white terrace smothered with the roses of my gardens and shall see the lords of the earth, the wanderers, pass by!'" - Colette, La Vagabonde

Niech na twym niebie nie bÄ™dzie chmur, a jeÅ›li bÄ™dÄ… to niech majÄ… kolor i zapach ró?y.

Cardan had his polished boots resting on a rock and his head pillowed on the utterly ridiculous mortal book he'd been reading. Since the one with the girl and the rabbit and the bad queen, he'd discovered he had a taste for human novels. A hob in the market traded them to Cardan for roses smuggled out of the royal gardens.

She did not need anyone else's love when she had roses.

It's long since I've gone to the East Mountains. How many seasons have the tiny roses bloomed? White clouds - unblown - fall apart. In whose court has the bright moon dropped?

Roses are red, and here is something new, violets are violet not really blue.

I have a showroom where we experiment with twelve cakes. We develop sketches and ideas for cakes for the next season. We work with the top fashion designers to see what type of lace they are using or work with the top florist for us to be able to make various sugar roses or flowers.

life is like roses with thorns. There are a great many wonderful, joyous things to share, and then there are the painful, hurtful things, too. All I can tell you is that sharing life with those you love makes the good parts better and the bad parts easier to bear.

Take time to smell the roses but be careful of the bees.

A life with love must have some thorns, but a life with no love will have no roses.

life is like a bed of roses so watch out for the thorns

Wrap me up in the reddest cloak, in that flight of your tendons, and lead me into another kingdom, into the heroic ability to love, into the combination to every safe, into the wild dice you feel in your sad fingers when roses shipwreck next to the bridge of salvation. When there's nothing you can do.

Do not be tempted by English roses. Their beauty fades, but their thorns are forever.

Beauty is the garden scent of roses, murmuring water flowing gently...Can words describe the indescribable?

What she was retreating from was any profundity of feeling and therefore any commitment more intense than light church attendance and an interest in roses.... History is of course crammed with people like Mother, who are just sitting it out.

That's okay, you told me. I like them better when they're dried up. I'll keep them for years. Until our Get Rid of the Roses anniversary.

So las ich falsch in deinem Aug, dem tiefen? Kein heimlich Sehnen sah ich heiß dort funkeln? Es birgt zu deiner Seele keine Pforte Dein feuchter Blick? Die Wünsche, die dort schliefen, Wie stille Rosen in der Flut, der dunkeln, Sind, wie dein Plaudern: seellos... Worte, Worte?

Loss bites and pulls. It is a thing of hooks sunk into every part of you, parts that you would not think could feel loss like thumbs and lips, hooks moored to wind and memory so that slightest disturbance, the slightest act of recall, tugs at those fine lines. Red is the colour of loss and its smell is like burned roses.

It had grown darker now; it was full night already, with the swiftness of the mountainous latitudes. The square of sky over the patio was soft and dark as indigo velour, with magnificent stars like many-legged silver spiders festooned on its underside. Below them the white roses gleamed phosphorescently in the starlight, with a magnesium-like glow. There was a tiny splash from the depths of the well as a pebble or grain of dislodged earth fell in. ("The Moon Of Montezuma")