Flowers Quotes
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If a sheep eats bushes does it eat flowers too? a sheep eats whatever it finds even a flower with thorn? even a flower with thorns. then what's the good of thorns?
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People are flowers. Music is water. Musicians are the hose.
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The perfume of the flowers and of the bay tree are wafted on high, like incense. The birds sing sweet songs of praise to their Creator. In the tops of the trees, the soughing of the wind is like the hushed prayers of the multitude in some vast cathedral. Here the heart of man becomes impressionable.
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Flowers are the beautiful hieroglyphics of nature with which she indicates how much she loves us.
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I'd never been in play long enough for the flowers to die in the dressing room
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God knows I've done enough crap in my life to grow a few flowers.
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For April sobs while these are so glad April weeps while these are so gay,- Weeps like a tired child who had, Playing with flowers, lost its way.
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I sold flowers. I didn't sell myself. Now you've made a lady of me I'm not fit to sell anything else.
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Roads go ever ever on, Over rock and under tree, By caves where never sun has shone, By streams that never find the sea; Over snow by winter sown, And through the merry flowers of June, Over grass and over stone, And under mountains of the moon. Roads go ever ever on Under cloud and under star, Yet feet that wandering have gone Turn at last to home afar. Eyes that fire and sword have seen And horror in the halls of stone Look at last on meadows green And trees and hills they long have known.
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He who loves not flowers, has lost all love and fear of God.
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Petunias are as hopelessly impractical as a chiffon ball dress.
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Some flowers give out little or no odour until crushed.
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The sun does not shine for a few trees and flowers, but for the wide world's joy.
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Creating is living doubly. The groping, anxious quest of a Proust, his meticulous collecting of flowers, of wallpapers, and of anxieties, signifies nothing else.
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Is love the sweetness of flowers?
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There is a graveyard in my poor heart - dark, heaped-up graves, from which no flowers spring.
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The trouble with flowers is that invariably, when I'm ready to photograph them, they are not in season.
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Cover them over with beautiful flowers, Deck them with garlands, those brothers of ours, Lying so silent by night and by day.
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I once had a garden filled with flowers that grew only on dark thoughts, but they needed constant attention and one day I decided I had better things to do.
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So small, so blue, in grassy places / My flowers raise / Their tiny faces.
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You stink like a faerie, all flowers and sunshine and evil manipulation.
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Keep your face upturned to Christ as the flowers do to the sun. Look, and your soul shall live and grow...
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In sunshine, in prosperity, the flowers are very well; but how many wet days are there in life—November seasons of disaster, when a man's hearth and home would be cold indeed, without the clear, cheering gleam of intellect.
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In that moment, I could not write anything about flowers because I myself had turned into a flower, I myself had a stem and a lymph.
