Quotes of All Topics . Occasions . Authors
The sweetest souls, like the sweetest flowers, soon canker in cities, and no purity is rarer there than the purity of delight.
Break not the rose; its fragrance and beauty are surely sufficient, resting contented with these, never a thorn shall you feel.
Pity all newlyweds. She cooks something nice for him, and he brings her flowers, and they kiss and think: How easy marriage is.
I just do my own thing, and my flower continues to blossom like one of those delicious Bloomin' Onions from Outback Steakhouse.
By the time we left college, I had become my own image: a dandelion in the flower bed of society. Kinda cute, but still a weed.
San Francisco has a flowers-in-your-hair kind of vibe, while Chicago's got this very funny, big-city/small-town coolness to it.
It is always good to know, if only in passing, charming human beings. It refreshes one like flowers and woods and clear brooks.
The best and sweetest flowers of paradise God gives to His people when they are upon their knees. Prayer is the gate of heaven.
Dream big and surround yourself with brilliance, even if you end up dressed up like a flower or a sexually transmitted disease.
A careful observation of Nature will disclose pleasantries of superb irony. She has for instance placed toads close to flowers.
Arranging a bowl of flowers in the morning can give a sense of quiet in a crowded day - like writing a poem or saying a prayer.
Everywhere bees go racing with the hours, / For every bee becomes a drunken lover, / Standing upon his head to sup the flowers.
Sweet May lies fresh before us, To life the young flowers leap, And through the Heaven's blue o'er us The rosy cloudlets sweep.
They are not long, the days of wine and roses. Out of a misty dream, our path emerges for a while, then closes, within a dream.
Knowledge is also borrowed. It is not a flower that grows in your soul, it is something plastic that has been imposed upon you.
There is a flower, a little flower With silver crest and golden eye, That welcomes every changing hour, And weathers every sky.
Starry, starry night, flaming flowers that brightly blaze, swirling clouds in violet haze reflect Vincent's eyes of china blue.
Watch the indolent butterfly playing on the tall flower in the yard and think about the sun going down. It always does you know.
The smallest flower is a thought, a life answering to some feature of the Great Whole, of whom they have a persistent intuition.
He had her in his arms, her face like a wet flower at his lips, and all their vain terrors shriveling up like ghosts at sunrise.
Why does the past look so enticing to us? For the same reason why from a distance a meadow with flowers looks like a flower bed.
The dance of the flower in the wind, in the sun, in the rain, cannot be understood by the head; the heart has to be open for it.
Around us, life bursts with miracles, a glass of water, a ray of sunshine, a leaf, a caterpillar, a flower, laughter, raindrops.
I am talking about being optimistic enough to sow some seeds in the hope that some of them will germinate and grow into flowers.
Most of the people are homesick anyway, and a little lonely, and they hide themselves in their hair and are turned into flowers.
There is something of the same pleasure in noticing the hues of the stars that there is in looking at a flower garden in autumn.
Nothing is more fleeting than external form, which withers and alters like the flowers of the field at the appearance of autumn.
He does not care for flowers. Calls them rubbish, and cannot tell one from another, and thinks it is superior to feel like that.
Bees sip honey from flowers and hum their thanks when they leave. The gaudy butterfly is sure that the flowers owe thanks to him.
His tenderness in the springing grass, His beauty in the flowers, His living love in the sun above- All here, and near, and ours!
Here comes the time when, vibrating on its stem, every flower fumes like a censer; noises and perfumes circle in the evening air.
Dryness promotes the formation of flower buds...flowering is, after all, not an aesthetic contribution, but a survival mechanism.
True glory strikes root, and even extends itself; all false pretensions fall as do flowers, nor can any feigned thing be lasting.
How does the Meadow flower its bloom unfold? Because the lovely little flower is free down to its root, and in that freedom bold.
The garden where you sit Has never a need of flowers, For you are the blossoms And only a fool or the blind Would fail to know it
This life of ours...human life is like a flower gloriously blooming in a meadow: along comes a goat, eats it up---no more flower.
All sorts of flowers the which on earth do spring In goodly colours gloriously arrayed; Go to my love, where she is careless laid
In the Spring a livelier iris changes on the burnish'd dove; In the Spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love.
Behold thine immortal Self resurrected with Christ in the light of illumination, present in every soul, every flower, every atom!
These people were not only cheering, they were throwing flowers and hats. The hats were made of stone, but the thought was there.
The red rose whispers of passion, And the white rose breathes of love; O, the red rose is a falcon, And the white rose is a dove.
Love is a flower that should never cease to grow. Nurture it, and it will outlive you. Neglect it, and it will wilt away and die.
Not always can flowers, pearls, poetry, protestations, nor even home in another heart, content the awful soul that dwells in clay.
I wanted to say something brilliant. My God, Holmes, how did you know the zombie was hiding in the flower pot? But I couldn't lie.
True glory takes root, and even spreads; all false pretences, like flowers, fall to the ground; nor can any counterfeit last long.
Words. Borne on the ever swelling current of hatred, like flowers opening in the current, petals peeling back, then falling apart.
There is as much difference between good poetry and fine verses, as between the smell of a flower-garden and of a perfumer's shop.
Too late I stayed, - forgive the crime! Unheeded flew the hours; How noiseless falls the foot of time That only treads on flowers.
The highest genius never flowers in satire, but culminates in sympathy with that which is best in human nature, and appeals to it.
O Risen Christ! O Easter Flower! How dear Thy Grace has grown! From east to west, with loving power, Make all the world Thine own.