Flower Quotes - Page 21

• If you love a flower that lives on a star, it is sweet to look at the sky at night. All the stars are a-bloom with flowers.

  Antoine de Saint-Exupery

  Sweet, Stars, Night

  "Fictional character: The Little Prince". "The Little Prince", www.imdb.com. 2015.

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• It's so curious: one can resist tears and 'behave' very well in the hardest hours of grief. But then someone makes you a friendly sign behind a window, or one notices that a flower that was in bud only yesterday has suddenly blossomed, or a letter slips from a drawer... and everything collapses.

  Sidonie Gabrielle Colette

  Love, Sad, Broken Heart

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• Tell me the word that will win you, and I will speak it. I will speak the stars of heaven into a crown for your head; I will speak the flowers of the field into a cloak; I will speak the racing stream into a melody for your ears and the voices of a thousand larks to sing it; I will speak the softness of night for your bed and the warmth of summer for your coverlet; I will speak the brightness of flame to light your way and the luster of gold to shine in your smile; I will speak until the hardness in you melts away and your heart is free.

  Stephen R. Lawhead

  Summer, Stars, Heart

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• I'd like to divide myself in order to see, among these mountains, each and every flower of every cherry tree.

  Saigyō

  Order, Tree, Mountain

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• Life and love are life and love, a bunch of violets is a bunch of violets, and to drag in the idea of a point is to ruin everything. Live and let live, love and let love, flower and fade, and follow the natural curve, which flows on, pointless.

  D. H. Lawrence

  Love, Ideas, Curves

  D. H. Lawrence, James T. Boulton (2004). “D. H. Lawrence: Late Essays and Articles”, p.153, Cambridge University Press

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• It was her first book, an indigo cover with a silver moonflower, an art nouveau flower, I traced my finger along the silver line like smoke, whiplash curves. ... I touched the pages her hands touched, I pressed them to my lips, the soft thick old paper, yellow now, fragile as skin. I stuck my nose between the bindings and smelled all the readings she had given, the smell of unfiltered cigarettes and the espresso machine, beaches and incense and whispered words in the night. I could hear her voice rising from the pages. The cover curled outward like sails.

  Janet Fitch

  Beach, Art, Book

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• It is said there are flowers that bloom only once in a hundred years. Why should there not be some that bloom once in a thousand, in ten thousand years? Perhaps we never know about them simply because this "once in a thousand years" has come today.

  Yevgeny Zamyatin

  Love, Years, Today

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• Willows whiten, aspens quiver, little breezes dusk and shiver, thro' the wave that runs forever by the island in the river, flowing down to Camelot. Four gray walls and four gray towers, overlook a space of flowers, and the silent isle imbowers, the Lady of Shalott.

  Alfred Lord Tennyson

  Running, Wall, Islands

  Alfred, Lord Tennyson, Professor Norman Page (2013). “Tennyson: Selected Poetry”, p.20, Routledge

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• Ellen could have killed me," Jack said quietly, "but she didn't. She saved my life." "How come?" Fitch demanded. "After all this?" Ellen turned scarlet and stared at the ground. "Maybe none of my opponents ever gave me flowers before," she mumbled.

  Cinda Williams Chima

  Opponents, Said, Scarlet

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• Now seen...now gone, The butterfly flits in and out Through fence-hung flowers; But a life lived so close to them I envy...though it's here and gone.

  Saigyō

  Butterfly, Envy, Gone

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• All gods who receive homage are cruel. All gods dispense suffering without reason. Otherwise they would not be worshipped. Through indiscriminate suffering men know fear and fear is the most divine emotion. It is the stones for altars and the beginning of wisdom. Half gods are worshipped in wine and flowers. Real gods require blood.

  Zora Neale Hurston

  Fear, Real, Wine

  Zora Neale Hurston (1937). “Their Eyes Were Watching God”, p.174, University of Illinois Press

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• But first, on earth as vampire sent, Thy corse shall from its tomb be rent, Then ghastly haunt thy native place, And suck the blood of all thy race. There from thy daughter, sister, wife, At midnight drain the stream of life, Yet loathe the banquet which perforce Must feed thy livid living corse. Thy victims ere they yet expire Shall know the demon for their sire, As cursing thee, thou cursing them, Thy flowers are withered on the stem.

  Lord Byron

  Daughter, Blood, Race

  Lord Byron (2013). “Delphi Complete Works of Lord Byron (Illustrated)”, p.768, Delphi Classics

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• Now the leaves are falling fast,
  Nurse's flowers will not last;
  Nurses to their graves are gone,
  And the prams go rolling on.

  W. H. Auden

  Fall, Nurse, Rolling

  "Autumn Song". Poem by W. H. Auden, 1936.

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• See the mountains kiss high Heaven And the waves clasp one another; No sister-flower would be forgiven If it disdained its brother; And the sunlight clasps the earth, And the moonbeams kiss the sea - What is all this sweet work worth If thou kiss not me?

  Percy Bysshe Shelley

  Sweet, Brother, Kissing

  Percy Bysshe Shelley (2012). “Ode to the West Wind and Other Poems”, p.39, Courier Corporation

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• The hallway was lined with numbered doors, odd numbers on one side and even numbers on the other, and large ornamental vases, too large to hold flowers and too small to hold spies.

  Daniel Handler

  Doors, Numbers, Spy

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• To let God make us, instead of painfully trying to make ourselves; to follow the path that his love shows us, instead of through conceit or cowardice or mockery choosing another; to trust Him for our strength and fitness as the flowers do, simply giving ourselves back to Him in grateful service,—this is to keep the laws that give us the freedom of the city in which there is no longer any night of bewilderment or ignorance or uncertainty.

  Sarah Orne Jewett

  Grateful, Ignorance, Night

  Sarah Orne Jewett (2008). “A Country Doctor”, p.238, Bantam Classics

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• you said Is there anything which is dead or alive more beautiful than my body,to have in your fingers (trembling ever so little)? Looking into your eyes Nothing,i said,except the air of spring smelling of never and forever. ....and through the lattice which moved as if a hand is touched by a hand(which moved as though fingers touch a girl's breast, lightly) Do you believe in always,the wind said to the rain I am too busy with my flowers to believe,the rain answered

  e. e. cummings

  Beautiful, Girl, Spring

  E. E. Cummings (2013). “Like a perhaps hand: Poems. Gedichte”, p.10, C.H.Beck

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• It wouldn't be my move," Jace agreed. "First the candy and flowers, then the apology letters, then the ravenous demon hordes. In that order.

  Cassandra Clare

  Moving, Apology, Order

  Cassandra Clare (2009). “City of Bones”, p.153, Simon and Schuster

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• As little flowers, which the chill of night has bent and huddled, when the white sun strikes, grow straight and open fully on their stems, so did I, too, with my exhausted force.

  Dante Alighieri

  Night, White, Littles

  Dante Alighieri (1982). “The divine comedy of Dante Alighieri: a verse translation”

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• It’s the place of the story, beginning here, in the meadow of late summer flowers, thriving before the Atlantic storms drive wet and winter upon them all.

  Gregory Maguire

  Summer, Winter, Storm

  Gregory Maguire (2009). “Confessions Of An Ugly Stepsister: A Novel”, p.29, Harper Collins

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• To the Virgins, To Make much of Time Gather ye rose-buds while ye may, Old Time is still a-flying; And this same flower that smiles today, Tomorrow will be dying. The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun, The higher he’s a-getting, The sooner will his race be run, And nearer he is to setting. That age is best which is the first, When youth and blood are warmer; But being spent, the worse, and worst Times still succeed the former. Then be not coy, but use your time, And while you may, go marry; For having lost but once your prime, You may for ever tarry.

  Robert Herrick

  Running, Race, Blood

  'To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time'

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• You know, sometimes I'll go to an 8th-grade graduation and there's all that pomp and circumstance and gowns and flowers. And I think to myself, it's just 8th grade ... An 8th-grade education doesn't cut it today. Let's give them a handshake and tell them to get their butts back in the library!

  Barack Obama

  Cutting, Thinking, Giving

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• My family suffered. My hair turned up in every corner, every drawer, every meal. Even in the rice puddings Tessie made, covering each little bowl with wax paper before putting it away in the fridge--even into these prophylactically secure desserts my hair found its way! Jet black hairs wound themselves around bars of soap. They lay pressed like flower stems between the pages of books. They turned up in eyeglass cases, birthday cards, once--I swear--inside an egg Tessie had just cracked. The next-door neighbor's cat coughed up a hairball one day and the hair was not the cat's.

  Jeffrey Eugenides

  Book, Cat, Eggs

  Jeffrey Eugenides (2003). “Middlesex”, p.306, A&C Black

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• He is some brainless, beautiful creature, who should always be here in winter when we have no flowers to look at, and always here in the summer when we want something to chill our intelligence.

  Oscar Wilde

  Beautiful, Summer, Winter

  Oscar Wilde, Russell Jackson, Joseph Bristow, Ian Small (2000). “The Complete Works of Oscar Wilde: The picture of Dorian Gray : the 1890 and 1891 texts”, p.170, Oxford University Press on Demand

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• And consider: it is loss to which everything flows, absence in which everything flowers

  Margaret Atwood

  Loss, Flow, Absence

  Margaret Atwood (2007). “The Tent”, p.27, Anchor

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