Flowers Quotes
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Petunias are as hopelessly impractical as a chiffon ball dress.
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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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People are flowers. Music is water. Musicians are the hose.
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I am as one who is left alone at a banquet, the lights dead and the flowers faded.
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Scent is the soul of flowers, and sea flowers, as splendid as they may be, have no soul!
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Is it possible to be a revolutionary and like flowers?
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The Herbs ought to be distilled when they are in their greatest vigor, and so ought the Flowers also.
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Just as the bee takes the nectar and leaves without damaging the color or scent of the flowers, so should the sage act in a village.
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The older I grow the more do I love spring and spring flowers. Is it so with you?
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What could be said about me...a man to whom only his painting matters? And of course his garden and his flowers as well.
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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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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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My dream is for my flowers to act as beacons and rallying points across the planet - bringing people together on a global scale and through my art start a global conversation.
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Good friends are like beautiful flowers in the garden of life.
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I've always thought my flowers had souls.
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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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There is a graveyard in my poor heart - dark, heaped-up graves, from which no flowers spring.
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Spring training means flowers, people coming outdoors, sunshine, optimism and baseball. Spring training is a time to think about being young again.
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Death carries off a man busy picking flowers with an besotted mind, like a great flood does a sleeping village.
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Flowers are words which even a baby can understand.
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Wherever flowers cannot be reared, there man cannot live.
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I let his rose wither in a vase on my desk, a vase painfully empty of flowers since the long-ago time when, on my birthday, Mario would give me a cattleya, in imitation of Swann. In the evening the flower was already black and bent on its stem. I threw it in the trash.
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Raise your words, not voice. It is rain that grows flowers, not thunder.
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Humble yourself, and you will find that Love is spreading a carpet of flowers beneath your feet.
