Best 1897 quotes in «garden quotes» category

She awaits the rain like a writer embraces metaphors, A drizzle isn't for the child who dances in the storm. Of rain that washes away the petrichor it brings, A downpour of a hail of bullets, and she calls it spring.

She abandoned the garden, and the mums and asters that had trusted her to see them through to the first frost hung their waterlogged heads.

She sat on the little iron garden seat in the clearing at the top and looked down at the strange garden of her mysterious grandmother, the patched-up house beyond. She wondered what her mother and grandmother were speaking of, why had they come to visit today, but no matter how she twisted the questions in her mind, she could divine no answers. After a time, the distraction of the garden proved too great. Her questions dropped away, and she began to harvest pregnant Busy Lizzie pods while a black cat watched from a distance, pretending disinterest. When she had a nice collection, Cassandra climbed up onto the lowest bough of the mango tree in the back corner of the yard, pods cupped gently in her hand, and began to pop them, one by one. Enjoying the cold, gooey seeds that sprayed across her fingers, the pussycat's surprise when a pod shell dropped between her paws, her zeal as she mistook it for a grasshopper.

She wandered to the window, staring out at a path of stone arches that led through the east garden. The arches had overgrown with roses, clematis, and honeysuckle, forming a fragrant tunnel that led to a stone-walled summerhouse with a wood-latticed ceiling. Memories of McKenna were everywhere in the garden... his hands moving carefully among the roses, pruning the dead blossoms... his tanned face dappled with the sunlight that broke through the leaves and lattices... the hair on the back of his neck glittering with sweat as he shoveled gravel onto the path, or weeded the raised flower beds.

She was gracious and yet fading, like an old statue in a garden, that symbolizes the weather through which it has endured, and is not so much the work of man as the work of wind and rain and the herd of the seasons, and though formed in men's image is a figure of doom.

Shigemori's body of work is a compelling manifesto for continuous cultural renewal.

Show me the world inside you, I don't mind if you have broken walls or abandoned garden, and if your moon is dark let me hold your hands.

..So neither he who plants nor he who waters is anything, but only God, who makes things grow. 1 Corinthians 3:7

Some people wait to get flowers while others grow gardens.

Sometimes he felt his loneliness. But these moments of solitude and loneliness gave meaning to his existence. He would keep drifting from moment to moment - inhaling the fragrances of these moments like one inhaled from the flowers in a garden!

Somewhere on the world was the Emperor's palace, set amid one hundred square miles of natural soil, rainbowed with flowers.

Sow good seeds for a bountiful harvest of good fruits.

Sometimes he felt his loneliness. But these moments of solitude and loneliness gave meaning to his existence. He would keep drifting from moment to moment - inhaling the fragrances of these moments as one inhaled from the flowers in a garden.

Souls are flowers, only God has the right to pluck them. But those who commit suicide: their souls are the rotten blossoms of devil's garden.

Spring time is nature at its best.

The garden has wrapped itself in autumn haze. An unusual autumn, lacking that thrill of vegetal warmth when the sap is still alive and holds up the trees, drunk on solar gold. It is the sorrowful climax of a summer's drought. Never before was I so struck by the cancerous emaciation in a garden. The leaves started turning yellow in July and began falling, like a dance of prematurely withered bodies.

Talk a walk with me through nature and let’s gaze on the marvelous wonders of creation.

The battlefields of life were first meadows and gardens. We made them into battlefields, and by the same power, we must release the dark spell, so they are meadows and gardens once again.

The garden is a miraculous place, and anything can happen on a beautiful moonlit night.

The garden of God is full of ripen fruits.

The garden was full of sorrow Songbirds and unusual winds whistled a rhyme Clouds caused to appear and cast down darkness For this was the first day the sun didn't shine

Summer was a lady who didn't give up her spotlight easily.

The campus spreads around him like the verdant pleasure garden of an ancient king. He is enraptured by the enormous trees that lift branches like cathedral roofs overhead, shoot roots like polished ballroom floors underfoot. In the hot afternoons he leaves the crowded rooms to study under the protection of these spreading giants.

The Daffodil-Yellow Villa The new villa was enormous, a tall, square Venetian mansion, with faded daffodil-yellow walls, green shutters, and a fox-red roof. It stood on a hill overlooking the sea, surrounded by unkempt olive groves and silent orchards of lemon and orange trees. ... the little walled and sunken garden that ran along one side of the house, its wrought-iron gates scabby with rust, had roses, anemones and geraniums sprawling across the weed-grown paths ... ... there were fifteen acres of garden to explore, a vast new paradise sloping down to the shallow, tepid sea.

The first sight I beheld when I first awakened was a pair of eyes filled with pure adoration and a joyful grin that shone more brightly than the afternoon sun. Though he hadn’t spoken a single word, I knew exactly who he was. He was my creator … my Lord … my God.

The garden flourished that summer because Magnus's mother was determined to feed her family despite the depredations of the distant war. In the fall, there were beans and tomatoes and pickles to can, and jar after jar of applesauce. Mama's hives yielded fresh honey, and then willow skeps were winterized. The bees would not come out until the air warmed and the sun appeared.

The garden of your dreams is watered by the sweat of excellence.

The gardens were mystifying, inside the beautifully tended box hedges the flower-beds were choked with weeds, a single garden chair, made of white painted wire in the Victorian fashion, was set quite alone on a wide gravel space, with an air of deluded sociability, as if it had gone mad and thought that there were about it many other garden chairs.

The garden was the most beautiful place Margherita had ever seen. In spring, it was a sea of delicate blossom. In summer, it was green and fruitful. In autumn, the trees blazed gold and red and orange, as vivid as Margherita's hair. Even in winter, it was beautiful, with bare branches against the old stone walls and green hedges in curves and curlicues about beds of winter-flowering herbs and flowers.

The Good Gardener planted each of us here for a reason.

Then he went up to the window. His heart began pounding excitedly when he turned back the yellow linen of the curtain. An enchantingly beautiful spectacle was revealed before him — although today he immediately noticed that there was something strange in the entire aspect of this extensive and excellently arranged Garden. Precisely what amazed him he was still unable to say right away, and he began to examine the Garden attentively. What was there so unpleasant in its beauty? Why was the Youth's heart trembling so painfully? Was it that everything in the enchanted Garden was too exact. All the paths were laid out geometrically, and all were of the same width, and all were covered with precisely the same amount of yellow sand; the plants were all arranged with exaggerated orderliness; the trees were trimmed in the form of spheres, cones and cylinders; the flowers were arranged according to the various shades so that their composition was pleasing to the eye, but for some reason or other this wounded the soul. But giving it careful thought, what was there unpleasant in that orderliness which merely bore witness to the careful attention which someone paid to the Garden? Of course there was no reason for this to cause the strange apprehension which oppressed the Youth. But it was in something else as yet incomprehensible to the Youth. One thing was for certain, though, that this Garden did not resemble any other garden which the Youth had happened to see in his time. Here he saw giant flowers of an almost too brilliant color — at times it seemed that many-colored fires were burning in the midst of the luxuriant greenery — brown and black stalks of creeping growths, thick like tropical serpents; leaves of a strange shape and immeasurable size, whose greeness seemed to be unnaturally brilliant. Heady and languid fragrances wafted through the window in gentle waves, breaths of vanilla, frankincense and bitter almond, sweet and bitter, ecstatic and sad, like some joyous funereal mysterium. The Youth felt the tender yet lively touches of the gentle wind. But in the Garden it seemed as if the wind had no strength and lay exhausted on the tranquil green grass and in the shadows beneath the bushes of the strange growths. And because the trees and grass of the strange Garden were breathlessly quiet and could not hear the softly blowing wind above them and did not reply to it, they seemed to be inanimate. And thus they were deceitful, evil and hostile to man. ("The Poison Garden")

The love for God is the love to protect the environment.

THE MOTH AND THE BUTTERFLY When the sun rises over the horizon, the butterfly emerges to dance in its brilliant light. It flickers its colorful wings with euphoria, To celebrate all the beauty found in the majestic garden of life. When the moon arrives in the darkness, The moth appears at the disappearance of sunlight. It flickers its pale wings as it shakes from its deep slumber, To go search for food To carry it through the night. The moth prefers the moon and detests the sun, while the butterfly loves the sun and hides from the moon. Every living creature responds to light, But depending on the amount of light you have inside, Determines which lamp in the sky Your heart will swoon. Poetry by Suzy Kassem

The one who sows compassion, reaps love in an enchanted garden.

The peace within and flowing from sacred spaces and architecture places is clothed in forgiveness, renunciation, and reconciliation.

The point is, sometimes when the rabbit gets too fat, too comfortable, he makes mistakes. But the gardener, she ain’t got nothing but time. Because even the hungriest rabbit can’t eat the entire garden. At some point the good sheriff will make a mistake, some gross miscalculation, reveal some weakness, and that’s when we’ll find our freedom.

There are many paths leading to a garden and many experiences awaiting those who venture in. No matter what your motive—whether to grow healthy, delicious food; spend time outdoors feeling more alive than your desk job allows; help save the planet; find relaxation, solace, or healing; meet your neighbors; get your hands in the sweet earth; or discover for yourself just how abundant and generous nature can be—a garden rarely disappoints. It’s a magnet for life in all its quirky, beautiful forms.

There was something about the garden that reminded her of Nell's backyard in Brisbane. Not the plants so much as the mood. As long as Cassandra could remember, Nell's yard had been a jumble of cottage plants, herbs and brightly colored annuals. Little concrete paths winding their way through the growth. So different from the other suburban backyards, with their stretches of sunburned grass and the occasional thirsty rosebushes inside white-painted car tires.

The ripen fruit is for a sacred season.

The seed of a blue lupin will usually produce a blue lupin. But the seed of a blue-eyed man may produce a brown-eyed bore...especially if his wife has a taste for gigolos.

The soul of a child is the loveliest flower that grows in the garden of God.

The soul's garden is watered by love's rivers.

The sunlight could not quite dispel the difference in atmosphere now that she had seen the interior of the garden. It was as if a dark underside had been revealed that changed the cast of the whole property. But the whimsy of it, the way the eye was drawn down through every vista, the inventiveness, the fairy-tale quality, the melancholy of the lost gardens- it all excited her.

The Sunlight on the Garden The sunlight on the garden Hardens and grows cold, We cannot cage the minute Within its nets of gold, When all is told We cannot beg for pardon. Our freedom as free lances Advances towards its end; The earth compels, upon it Sonnets and birds descend; And soon, my friend, We shall have no time for dances. The sky was good for flying Defying the church bells And every evil iron Siren and what it tells: The earth compels, We are dying, Egypt, dying And not expecting pardon, Hardened in heart anew, But glad to have sat under Thunder and rain with you, And grateful too For sunlight on the garden.

The torchlit garden was redolent with the colors and scents of autumn... gold and copper foliage, thick borders of roses and dahlias, flowering grasses and beds of fresh mulch that made the air pleasantly pungent.

The word "paradise" came out of my mouth, without thinking.

The word “repurpose” means to take an object and give it amnesia. It means to make something forget what it’s been trained to do so you can use it for a better reason. I am learning that this body is not a shotgun. I am learning that this body is not a pistol. I am learning that a man is not defined by what he can destroy. I am learning that a person who only knows how to fight can only communicate in violence and that shouldn’t be anyone’s first language. I am learning that the difference between a garden and a graveyard is only what you choose to put in the ground.

They had crossed the terrace where weeds, ivy, and goldenrod had run amuck in the flowerbeds that lined the weather-beaten stone balustrade. Mounds of blue hydrangeas nearly as tall as Lucien crowded the three mossy steps that led down into the formal garden. He went down them, and Alice followed him toward the circular fountain. As they approached, two doves that had perched on the stately stone fountain urn fluttered away, cooing. Alice stopped beside the fountain pool and gazed down with a faraway expression at the lily pads, driven with dreamlike slowness over the surface of the shallow water like tiny sailing vessels. She studied the scene as though memorizing it, while Lucien gazed at her, watching the wind toy with her clothes and the tendrils of her hair that it had worked free from her neat coif. Her waving red-gold hair, blue eyes, and ivory skin, and the chaste, faraway serenity of her face, put him in mind of Botticelli's Venus, rising from the sea upon her scallop shell.

They were full of mysteries and secrets, like... like poems turned into landscapes." "'Poems turned into landscapes.'" he murmured with a slight smile. "And what of Vestenveld's gardens? Do you see poems in them?" "Your gardens are like your country's poetry. Very frilly and organized.

This garden is your life. Of course, there are the occasional weeds—but more than anything, this garden is filled with so much life!