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.
A single rose can be my garden... a single friend, my world.
The rose does not have a why; it blossums without reason, forgetful of self and oblivious to our vision.
Rose is a rose is a rose is a rose.
Someday you will name me, then gently place those burning holy roses in my hair.
Some people are always grumbling because roses have thorns; I am thankful that thorns have roses.
I'd rather have roses on my table than diamonds on my neck.
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.
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.
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.
Won't you come into the garden? I would like my roses to see you.
Gather the rose of love whilst yet is time.
Love thou rose, yet leave it on its stem.
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.
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses
Life is a garden. It is an opportunity. You can grow weeds, you can grow roses; it all depends on you.
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.
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.
How cunningly nature hides every wrinkle of her inconceivable antiquity under roses and violets and morning dew!
As you walk down the fairway of life you must smell the roses, for you only get to play one round.
It will never rain roses: when we want to have more roses we must plant more trees.
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