Sweet April showers do spring May flowers.
The sun does not shine for a few trees and flowers, but for the wide world's joy.
You are as welcome as the flowers in May.
So plant your own gardens and decorate your own soul, instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers.
Give me odorous at sunrise a garden of beautiful flowers where I can walk undisturbed.
You can cut all the flowers but you cannot keep spring from coming.
All the year round there is spring, all through life is youth; there is always something which may flower.
Dear common flower, that grow'st beside the way, Fringing the dusty road with harmless gold, First pledge of blithesome May, Which children pluck, and, full of pride uphold.
I think that no matter how old or infirm I may become, I will always plant a large garden in the spring. Who can resist the feelings of hope and joy that one gets from participating in nature's rebirth?
Love is like a beautiful flower which I may not touch, but whose fragrance makes the garden a place of delight just the same.
Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses, a box where sweets compacted lie.
For winter's rains and ruins are over, And all the season of snows and sins; The days dividing lover and lover, The light that loses, the night that wins; And time remembered isgrief forgotten, And frosts are slain and flowers begotten, And in green underwood and cover Blossom by blossom the spring begins.
There is that in the glance of a flower which may at times control the greatest of creation's braggart lords.
Dancing of late years has been degraded to the narrow limits and low professionalism of mere mechanical proficiency, associated with the most frivolous... phases of the stage. But this day is fading...We are turning our gaze inward, learning to seek there the divine sources of the dance, to the end that it may flower into new and more glorious forms of beauty and wealth
O lovely lily clean, O lily springing green, O lily bursting white, Dear lily of delight, Spring in my heart agen That I may flower to men.
By the time one is eighty, it is said, there is no longer a tug of war in the garden with the May flowers hauling like mad against the claims of the other months. All is at last in balance and all is serene. The gardener is usually dead, of course.
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