Quotes About Honey

I spit honey out of my mouth: nothing is second-best after the sweet of Eros.

They were fed flaky pastries filled with beef and spices, a peppery stew over couscous, breads stuffed with honey and almonds.

The tray held herb tea, buttered bread, fruit and sheep's-milk yogurt mixed with honey, something Andie particularly liked first thing in the morning. It was, in fact, breakfast in bed.

Place a beehive on my grave And let the honey soak through. When I'm dead and gone, That's what I want from you. The streets of heaven are gold and sunny, But I'll stick with my plot and a pot of honey. Place a beehive on my grave And let the honey soak through.

It takes a bee 10,000,000 trips to collect enough nectar to make 1 pound of honey.

Place a beehive on my grave and let the honey soak through, when I am dead and gone that's what I want from you. The streets of heaven are gold and sunny, but I'll stick with my plot and a pot of honey. Place a beehive on my grave and let the honey soak through.

We lived for honey. We swallowed a spoonful in the morning to wake us up and one at night to put us to sleep. We took it with every meal to calm the mind, give us stamina, and prevent fatal disease. We swabbed ourselves in it to disinfect cuts or heal chapped lips. It went in our baths, our skin cream, our raspberry tea and biscuits. Nothing was safe from honey...honey was the ambrosia of the gods and the shampoo of the goddesses.

It takes honeybee workers ten million foraging trips to gather enough nectar to make one pound of honey. —Bees of the World

The whole fabric of honey bee society depends on communication—on an innate ability to send and receive messages, to encode and decode information. —The Honey Bee

That night in my bed in the honey house, when I closed my eyes, bee hum ran through my body. Ran through the whole earth. It was the oldest sound there was. Souls flying away.

Place a beehive on my grave and let the honey soak through. When I'm dead and gone, that's what I want from you. The streets of heaven are gold and sunny, but I'll stick with my plot and a pot of honey. Place a beehive on my grave and let the honey soak through.

Do you think I could keep bees one day?" I asked. August said, "Didn't you tell me this past week one of the things you loved was bees and honey? Now, if that's so, you'll be a fine beekeeper. Actually, you can be bad at something, Lily, but if you love doing it, that will be enough." The

I like the organza tiebacks. They're pretty and ethereal. Lovely. I think those are the ones. Me, too. And hey, can we invent a signature cocktail for the wedding, using honey? I'm working on one made with honey syrup, apple juice and calvados. Garnished with an apple slice, of course.

The garden flourished that summer because Magnus's mother was determined to feed her family despite the depredations of the distant war. In the fall, there were beans and tomatoes and pickles to can, and jar after jar of applesauce. Mama's hives yielded fresh honey, and then willow skeps were winterized. The bees would not come out until the air warmed and the sun appeared.

Beekeeping is farming for intellectuals.

There was an inexhaustible source of clouds in some land far to the north. Decisive people, minds fixed on the task, clothed in thick, gray uniforms, working silently from morning to night to make clouds, like bees make honey, spiders make webs, and war makes widows.

Every decent friendship comes with a drop of hatred. But that hatred is like honey in the tea. It makes it addictive.

We ought not to extract pernicious honey from poison blossoms of misrepresentation and mendacious half-truth, to pamper the course appetite of bigotry and self-love.

They whom truth and wisdom lead, can gather honey from a weed.

For bel.i.eve me, the more one is, the richer is all one experiences. And whoever wants to have deep love in his life must collect and save for it and gather honey.

In the valley of the giants where the stars and stripes explode, the peaches they were sweet and the milk and honey flowed.

Raspberry, strawberry, lemon and lime What do I care Blueberry, apple, cherry, pumpkin and plum Call me for dinner Honey, I'll be there

Karen Pence had been working for days on goodie bags for staffers in her husband's office, packing them with champagne flutes, honey from their beehive at the Naval Observatory, and cutting boards with the vice presidential seal. She also dropped in a print of her painting of the Naval Observatory, a nod toward her work to bring attention to art therapy, a mental health initiative she had promoted for years.

Winter had long since come. It was freezing cold. Torn-up sounds and forms appeared with no evident connection from the frosty mist, stood, moved, vanished. Not the sun we are accustomed to on earth, but the crimson ball of some other substitute sun hung in the forest. From it, strainedly and slowly, as in a dream or a fairy tale, rays of amber yellow light, thick as honey, spread and on their way congealed in the air and froze to the trees.