Quotes About Butterflies

You put butterflies back into my soul and painted their wings with passion and poetry.

I will drop into your chest like a vegetal ambrosia. I will be the grain that regenerates the cruelly plowed furrow. Poetry will be born of our intimate union. A god we shall create together, and we shall soar heavenward like sunbeams, perfumes, butterflies, birds, and all winged things.

I love it when the snowflakes are flying like butterflies.

The only authority I respect is the one that causes butterflies to fly south in fall and north in springtime.

Oh, Marx,' Amanda sighed. 'You're so melodramatic. So what if it's this way or that way? When I was in convent school I used to stare out the windows at the clouds. I used to chase butterflies in the Mother Superior's flower patch. Those clouds and those butterflies, they didn't know secular from religious--and they didn't care.' 'I'm neither a cloud nor a butterlfy,' I snapped. 'We're all the same as clouds and butterflies. We just pretend to be something different.

Butterflies are but flowers that blew away one sunny day when Nature was feeling at her most inventive and fertile.

Though we come and go, and pass into the shadows, where we leave behind us stories told — on paper, on the wings of butterflies, on the wind, on the hearts of others — there we are remembered, there we work magic and great change — passing on the fire like a torch — forever and forever. Till the sky falls, and all things are flawless and need no words at all.

And then you're on your very first date and he's got a car and you're feeling like flyyyyyyyin

The imagination's kisses are a cloud of butterflies.

Art is the fatal net which catches these strange moments on the wing like mysterious butterflies, fleeing the innocence and distraction of common men.

Tell me, sir, what is a butterfly? It's what you are meant to become. It flies with beautiful wings and joins the earth to heaven. It drinks only nectar from the flowers and carries the seeds of love from one flower to another. Without butterflies, the world would soon have few flowers.

She could become a child again, run and frolic, leave her hat on Valjean's knees and fill it with bunches of wild flowers. She could watch the butterflies, although she never tried to catch them; tenderness and compassion are a part of loving, and a girl cherishing something equally fragile in her heart is mindful of the wings of butterflies.

One would say, to see all these snow-flakes fall, that there was a plague of white butterflies in heaven.

Skip meeting him? The butterflies, the pounding heart, the blushing? The part where you enter each other's magnetic fields for the first time, and it's like invisble lines of energy are drawing you together-

No, not like bacteria, like butterflies, and some people's butterflies react to other people's, on a chemical level, like pheromones, so that when they're nearby, your butterflies start to dance. They can't help it - it's chemical.

Las mariposas en el estómago-suspiró Karou-Claro. ¿Sabes lo que pienso? Que las mariposas están siempre ahí, en el estómago de todos, en todo momento... - ¿Cómo bacterias? - No, no como bacterias, como mariposas. Y las de cada uno reaccionan con determinadas personas, a nivel químico, como feromonas, así cuando esas personas se acercan, tus mariposas empiezan a bailar. No pueden evitarlo, es una reacción química.

Era lo que siempre había deseado y pensaba que había encontrado: alguien destinado para ella, y ella, para él, cuyas mariposas danzaran con la misma melodía que las suyas, nota a nota

I only ask to be free. The butterflies are free.

The green grass and happy skies court the fluttering butterflies.

In a garden of clutter, nothing would grow There would be no butterflies, only clutterflies And heaps of disarray, every which way No nourishment anywhere, not anything pruned Just lots of useless stuff, everywhere strewn

The green grass and the happy skies court the fluttering butterflies.

She sighed, she snored, not that she was asleep, only drowsy and heavy, drowsy and heavy, like a field of clover in the sunshine this hot July day, with the bees going round and about and the yellow butterflies.

Moths that fly by day are not properly to be called moths; they do not excite that pleasant sense of dark autumn nights and ivy-blossom which the commonest yellow-underwing asleep in the shadow of the curtain never fails to rouse in us. They are hybrid creatures, neither gay like butterflies nor sombre like their own species. Nevertheless the present specimen, with his narrow hay-coloured wings, fringed with a tassel of the same colour, seemed to be content with life.

Literature and butterflies are the two sweetest passions known to man.