One of the most tragic things I know about human nature is that all of us tend to put off living. We are all dreaming of some magical rose garden over the horizon instead of enjoying the roses that are blooming outside our windows today.
We can complain because rose bushes have thorns, or rejoice because thorn bushes have roses.
Take time to smell the roses. Appreciating the little things in life really can make all the difference.
I am thankful that thorns have roses.
Every rose that is sweet-scented within, That rose is telling of the secrets of the Universal.
The rose does not have a why; it blossums without reason, forgetful of self and oblivious to our vision.
The rose is without 'why'; it blooms simply because it blooms. It pays no attention to itself, nor does it ask whether anyone sees it.
Some people are always grumbling because roses have thorns; I am thankful that thorns have roses.
Just remember, during the winter, far beneath the bitter snow, that there's a seed that with the sun's love in the spring becomes a rose.
I'd rather have roses on my table than diamonds on my neck.
Love thou rose, yet leave it on its stem.
Loveliest of lovely things are they,
On earth, that soonest pass away.
The rose that lives its little hour
Is prized beyond the sculptured flower.
Slow buds the pink dawn like a rose From out night's gray and cloudy sheath; Softly and still it grows and grows, Petal by petal, leaf by leaf.
Live now, believe me, wait not till tomorrow; Gather the roses of life today.
Gather ye rose-buds while ye may, Old Time is still a flying: And this same flower that smiles to day, Tomorrow will be dying.
But he that dares not grasp the thorn Should never crave the rose.
Someday you will name me, then gently place those burning holy roses in my hair.
Rose is a rose is a rose is a rose.
Beauty is an ecstasy; it is as simple as hunger. There is really nothing to be said about it. It is like the perfume of a rose: you can smell it and that is all.
I am not the rose, but I have lived near the rose.
As you walk down the fairway of life you must smell the roses, for you only get to play one round.
Won't you come into the garden? I would like my roses to see you.
You may break, you may shatter the vase, if you will, But the scent of the roses will hang round it still.
The seasons alter: hoary-headed frosts
Fall in the fresh lap of the crimson rose.
How did it happen that their lips came together? How does it happen that birds sing, that snow melts, that the rose unfolds, that the dawn whitens behind the stark shapes of trees on the quivering summit of the hill? A kiss, and all was said.
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