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.
The rose does not have a why; it blossums without reason, forgetful of self and oblivious to our vision.
I am thankful that thorns have roses.
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses
Every rose that is sweet-scented within, That rose is telling of the secrets of the Universal.
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.
Someday you will name me, then gently place those burning holy roses in my hair.
I'd rather have roses on my table than diamonds on my neck.
Some people are always grumbling because roses have thorns; I am thankful that thorns have roses.
How cunningly nature hides every wrinkle of her inconceivable antiquity under roses and violets and morning dew!
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.
As you walk down the fairway of life you must smell the roses, for you only get to play one round.
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.
Gather the rose of love whilst yet is time.
It will never rain roses: when we want to have more roses we must plant more trees.
A profusion of pink roses being ragged in the rain speaks to me of all gentleness and its enduring.
There is no salvation for the soul but to fall in Love. Only lovers can escape out of these two worlds. This was ordained in creation. Only from the heart can you reach the sky: The Rose of Glory can grow only from the heart.
The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem
For that sweet odour which doth in it live.
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.
Rose is a rose is a rose is a rose.
The seasons alter: hoary-headed frosts
Fall in the fresh lap of the crimson rose.
The optimist sees the rose and not its thorns; the pessimist stares at the thorns, oblivious to the rose.
Won't you come into the garden? I would like my roses to see you.
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.
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