Rose Quotes - Page 36

• The heavy red roses smoldering in the foggy morning, blood-colored and uninhibited, made me greedy, and tempted me powerfully to steal one--I asked the prices merely so I could come as near them as possible.

  Knut Hamsun

  Morning, Blood, Red

  Knut Hamsun (2008). “Hunger: A Novel”, p.43, Macmillan

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• It's late, I'm tired, and your cigarettes are giving me a headache," I growled. "I suppose that's fair." He drew in on the cigarette and let out the smoke. "Some women think they make me look sexy." "I think you smoke them so you have something to do while thinking up your next witty line." He choked on the smoke, caught between inhaling and laughing. "Rose Hathaway, I can't wait to see you again. If you're this charming while tired and annoyed and this gorgeous while bruised and in ski clothes, you must be devastating at your peak.

  Richelle Mead

  Sexy, Witty, Tired

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• Very old are the woods; And the buds that break Out of the brier's boughs, When March winds wake, So old with their beauty are-- Oh, no man knows Through what wild centuries Roves back the rose.

  Walter de La Mare

  Men, Wind, Bud

  The Listeners and Other Poems (1912) "All That's Past"

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• I did not think I should be ever loved: do you indeed Love me so much as now you say you do? Ask of the sea-bird if it loves the sea, Ask of the roses if they love the rain, Ask of the little lark, that will not sing Till day break, if it loves to see the day: And yet, these are but empty images, Mere shadows of my love, which is a fire So great that all the waters of the main Can not avail to quench it.

  Oscar Wilde

  Rain, Thinking, Fire

  Oscar Wilde (2008). “The Duchess of Padua: Easyread Large Bold Edition”, p.39, ReadHowYouWant.com

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• You wouldn't have taken Rose to such a place, would you?" "Of course not, but she is a little girl, and I'm-" "My life", he interrupted quietly. "You're my entire life. If anything ever happens to you, Holly, there is nothing left for me.

  Lisa Kleypas

  Girl, Taken, Hollies

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• As the rose-tree is composed of the sweetest flowers and the sharpest thorns, as the heavens are sometimes overcast—alternately tempestuous and serene—so is the life of man intermingled with hopes and fears, with joys and sorrows, with pleasure and pain.

  Edmund Burke

  Inspirational, Pain, Flower

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• The fans, the vampire groupies, love the idea of this androgynous, preternatural figure stalking the night, and craving aesthetic pleasure just as he craves blood, wearing only the best velvet clothes, and savoring red roses.

  Anne Rice

  Night, Blood, Ideas

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• A moment of grace. There rose up within me a profound sense of being loved. I felt "gathered together" and encircled by a Presence completely loving, as if I were enveloped by the music of a love song created just for me. It was not overwhelming or even emotional. Just a warm knowing that I was in God's loving embrace...centered and unified there. [Love]encounters cannot be analyzed, only shared. If you take a butterfly, Robert Frost said, and pin it down into a box, you no longer have a butterfly.

  Sue Monk Kidd

  Song, Butterfly, Emotional

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• Princess, you could never be that. You are unique to me. (Zarek) Am I your rose? (Astrid) Yes, you are my rose. There is only one of you in all the millions of planets and stars. (Zarek)

  Sherrilyn Kenyon

  Stars, Princess, Unique

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• I really hate Squires. (Syra) (She pulled another flat bolt out and loaded it, then shot it at Otto. Moving so fast he could hardly be seen, the Squire turned around and caught it without flinching. He held the bolt up to his nose and inhaled it lovingly.) Mmm. Rose. My favorite. (Otto) Perhaps we should leave you two alone. (Jess) Yeah, this does remind me a bit of the mating rites of the mean and the surly. (Allen)

  Sherrilyn Kenyon

  Hate, Moving, Mean

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• Within my heart a garden grows, wild with violets and fragrant rose. bright daffodils line the narrow path, my footsteps silent as i pass. sweet tulips nod their heads in rest; i kneel in prayer to seek gods best. for round my garden a fence stands firm to guard my heart so i can learn who should enter, and who should wait on the other side of my locked gate. i clasp the key around my neck and wonder if the time is yet. if i unlocked the gate today, would you come in? or run away?

  Robin Jones Gunn

  Running, Sweet, Prayer

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• For some time she observed a great yellow butterfly, which was opening and closing its wings very slowly on a little flat stone. "What is it to be in love?" she demanded, after a long silence; each word as it came into being seemed to shove itself out into an unknown sea. Hypnotized by the wings of the butterfly, and awed by the discovery of a terrible possibility in life, she sat for some time longer. When the butterfly flew away, she rose, and within, her two books beneath her arm returned again, much as a soldier prepares for battle.

  Virginia Woolf

  Book, Butterfly, Discovery

  Virginia Woolf (2013). “Delphi Complete Works of Virginia Woolf (Illustrated)”, p.157, Delphi Classics

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• The world has become sad because a puppet was once melancholy. The nihilist, that strange martyr who has no faith, who goes to the stake without enthusiasm, and dies for what he does not believe in, is a purely literary product. He was invented by Turgenev, and completed by Dostoevsky. Robespierre came out of the pages of Rousseau as surely as the People's Palace rose out debris of a novel. Literature always anticipates life. It does not copy it, but moulds it to its purpose.

  Oscar Wilde

  Believe, People, Doe

  Oscar Wilde (1999). “De Profundis: The Ballad of Reading Gaol and Other Writings”, p.159, Wordsworth Editions

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• He rose to his feet and padded down the last few steps silently, came up behind Kim, and leaned over her to say, “I vant to drink your blood” in a heavy, fake Dracula accent. She shrieked, flailed, and a zombie ate her brains on-screen."!

  Rachel Caine

  Blood, Feet, Fake

  Rachel Caine (2009). “Fade Out: The Morganville Vampires”, p.75, Penguin

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• in a middle of a room stands a suicide sniffing a Paper rose smiling to a self "somewhere it is Spring and sometimes people are in real:imagine somewhere real flowers,but I can't imagine real flowers for if I could,they would somehow not Be real" (so he smiles smiling)"but I will not everywhere be real to you in a moment" The is blond with small hands "& everything is easier than I had guessed everything would be;even remembering the way who looked at whom first,anyhow dancing

  e. e. cummings

  Suicide, Spring, Real

  E. E. Cummings (1997). “ViVa”, p.29, W. W. Norton & Company

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• I’m sorry, you just remind me of someone. (Rose) Old boyfriend? (Gallagher) No, my great-grandfather. (Rose) That’s not particularly flattering. I thought I looked rather good for my age. (Gallagher)

  Sherrilyn Kenyon

  Sorry, Grandfather, Age

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• His love for Frodo rose above all other thoughts, and forgetting his peril he cried aloud: 'I'm coming Mr. Frodo!

  J. R. R. Tolkien

  His Love, Forget, Frodo

  J.R.R. Tolkien (2012). “The Return of the King: Being the Third Part of the Lord of the Rings”, p.879, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt

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• Sophia and Grandmother sat down by the shore to discuss the matter further. It was a pretty day, and the sea was running a long, windless swell. It was on days just like this--dog days--that boats went sailing off all by themselves. Large, alien objects made their way in from sea, certain things sank and others rose, milk soured, and dragonflies danced in desperation. Lizards were not afraid. When the moon came up, red spiders mated on uninhabited skerries, where the rock became an unbroken carpet of tiny, ecstatic spiders.

  Tove Jansson

  Running, Dog, Grandmother

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• Whoever reaches into a rosebush may seize a handful of flowers; but no matter how many one holds, it's only a small portion of the whole. Nevertheless, a handful is enough to experience the nature of the flowers. Only if we refuse to reach into the bush, because we can't possibly seize all the flowers at once, or if we spread out our handful of roses as if it were the whole of the bush itself -- only then does it bloom apart from us, unknown to us, and we are left alone.

  Lou Andreas-Salomé

  Flower, Doe, May

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• The prospect of an early death sits differently upon each person. In some it gifts maturity far outweighing their age and experience: calm acceptance blossoms into a beautiful nature and soft countenance. In others, however, it leads to the formation of a tiny ice flint in their heart. Ice that, though at times concealed, never properly melts. Rose, though she would have liked to be one of the former, knew herself deep down to be one of the latter.

  Kate Morton

  Beautiful, Heart, Acceptance

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• To-day I think Only with scents, - scents dead leaves yield, And bracken, and wild carrot's seed, And the square mustard field; Odours that rise When the spade wounds the root of tree, Rose, currant, raspberry, or goutweed, Rhubarb or celery; The smoke's smell, too, Flowing from where a bonfire burns The dead, the waste, the dangerous, And all to sweetness turns. It is enough To smell, to crumble the dark earth, While the robin sings over again Sad songs of Autumn mirth." - A poem called DIGGING.

  Edward Thomas

  Song, Autumn, Dark

  Edward Thomas (2011). “Selected Poems of Edward Thomas”, p.85, Faber & Faber

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• He put the book down. “As you wish.” He rose and walked past me. I lowered my sword, expecting him to pass, but suddenly he stepped in dangerously close. “Welcome home. I’m glad you made it. There is coffee in the kitchen for you.” My mouth gaped open. He inhaled my scent, bent close, about to kiss me… I just stood there like an idiot. Curran smirked and whispered in my ear instead. “Psych.” And just like that, he was out the door and gone. Oh boy.

  Ilona Andrews

  Coffee, Book, Home

  Ilona Andrews (2008). “Magic Burns”, p.245, Penguin

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• They had a year of joy, twelve months of the strange heaven which the salmon know on beds of river shingle, under the gin-clear water. For twenty-four years they were guilty, but this first year was the only one which seemed like happiness. Looking back on it, when they were old, they did not remember that in this year it had ever rained or frozen. The four seasons were coloured like the edge of a rose petal for them.

  T. H. White

  Years, Rivers, Water

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• When you are corn and roses and at rest I shall endure, a dense and sanguine ghost To haunt the scene where I was happiest To bend above the thing I loved the most

  Edna St. Vincent Millay

  Corn, Ghost, Scene

  Edna St. Vincent Millay (2003). “Edna St. Vincent Millay: Selected Poems”, p.150, Library of America

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• Roses. Wolf mutts. Tributes. Frosted Dolphins. Friends. Mockingjays. Stylists. Me. Everything screams in my dreams tonight.

  Suzanne Collins

  Dream, Dolphins, Mutts

  Suzanne Collins (2013). “The Hunger Games Complete Trilogy”, p.690, Scholastic UK

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