Best 977 quotes in «rose quotes» category

Love fades. Mine has.

Love is the only rose whose thorn's prick is sweet.

Love sees the thorns but cherishes the rose anyway.

Love is the softest rose in the soul's garden.

Love is beyond space and time. It reaches out to the heart of the person that you are missing. Love binds two souls and not two bodies.

M-am lasat vrajita de frumusetea trandafirilor si nu am dat atentie spinilor.

Miss Green can call a turd a rose if she wants, but that don't mean people's going to be lining up to smell it.

Mother Atkinson thought that every one should have a trade, or something to make a living out of , for rich people may grow poor, you know, and poor people have to work.... so when I saw how happy and independent those young ladies were, I wanted to have a trade, and then it wouldn't matter about money, though I like to have it well enough.

My dearest Rose, One of the few downsides to being awakened is that we no longer require sleep; therefore we also no longer dream. It's a shame, because if I could dream, I know I'd dream about you. I'd dream about the way you smell and how your dark hair feels like silk between my fingers. I'd dream about the smoothness of your skin and the fierceness of your lips when we kiss. Without dreams, I have to be content with my own imagination - which is almost as good. I can picture all of those things perfectly, as well as how it'll be when I take your life from this world. It's something I regret having to do, but you've made my choice inevitable. Your refusal to join me in eternal life and love leaves no other course of action, and I can't allow someone as dangerous as you to live. Besides, even if I forced your awakening, you now have so many enemies among the Strigoi that one of them would kill you. If you must die, it'll be by my hand. No one else's. Nonetheless, I wish you well today as you take your trails - not that you need any luck. If they actually making you take them, it's a waste of everyone's time. You're the best in that group, and by this evening you'll wear your promise mark. Of course, that means you'll be all that much more of a challenge when we meet again - which I'll definitely enjoy. And we will be meeting again. With graduation, you'll be turned out of the Academy, and once you're outside the wards, I'll find you. There is no place in this world you can hide from me. I'm watching. Love, Dimitri

My heart like wild roses pressed between the pages of a dog eared book, unsure why something with so much beauty feels so crushed.

My nephew is a manipulative, scheming, unscrupulous son of a bitch. And those are his good qualities.

Night time You’ll find her there Blooming Like a night rose.

No death is sweeter than this, and no rose redder than the blood that flows.

Not thou, White rose, but thy Ensanguined sister is The dear companion of my heart's Shed blood.

Oh, that's the beauty of the rose, that it blossoms and dies.

Oh, Matthew," she whispered, moved to tears. "I called it Grace. I hope you don't mind." For the first time, his manner held a hint of shyness, disconcerting in a man who had just made love to her without hesitation or reticence. Gently, she curled her hand around what was inside the box and lifted it to the light. "It's your rose." "No, it's your rose." A heady fragrance filled the air. With one shaking finger, Grace touched a flawless pink petal. The color was unforgettable. It was the most beautiful rose she'd ever seen. Impossible to credit that those unpromising stalks in his courtyard had produced this exquisite bloom. "It's perfect," she whispered. "It's a miracle." He was a miracle. How could she not love the man who conjured this beauty with hands and imagination? The faint smile broadened. Had he worried that she'd reject his gift? Foolish, darling Matthew. The question was whether the rose was a promise of a future or a token of parting. "I worked on it whenever I could. This last year has been busy." An understatement, she knew. The Marquess of Sheene had been a ubiquitous presence in London since his release. Everywhere he went, society feted him as a hero. She'd read of the string of honors he'd received, the friendship with the king, the invitations to join scientific boards and societies. Echoing her gesture, he reached out to touch the petals. The sensitivity of his fingers on the flower reminded her of his hands on her skin. "I did most of the basic experiments when I was a prisoner, but I couldn't get it right." He glanced up with an expression that combined pride and diffidence in a breathtakingly attractive mixture. "This is the first bud, Grace. It appeared almost a year to the day after I promised to wait. It seemed a sign." "And you brought it to me," she said softly, staring at the flower. The anniversary of his release didn't occur for two more days. That date was etched on her longing heart. Then she noticed something else. "My glove," she said blankly. With unsteady hands, she reached in and withdrew a light green kidskin glove from a recess carved away from the damp. The buttery leather was crushed and worn from incessant handling. "Have you kept it all this time?" "Of course." He wasn't smiling anymore and his eyes deepened to a rich, rare gold. Beautiful, unwavering, somber. "You make me want to cry." Her voice emerged so thickly, she didn't sound like herself. She laid the box on the bench and tightened her grip on the soft leather until her knuckles whitened. What was he trying to tell her? What did the rose mean? The glove? Had he carried her glove into his new life like a knight wore his lady's favor into battle? The thought sent choking emotion to her throat.

Only when your love of roses is greater than your fear of thorns can you grow a beautiful garden.

Orange pekoe flavor, with that gold confection dust on the top." She holds one up to demonstrate. "Mascarpone filling." She bites it clean in half and shows me the middle. "Rose jelly in the center." "Sounds good to me. What shall we call it?" "I don't know." I reach over and pick up a macaron, the texture, weight, and balance all perfect. Symmetry, lightness, both shells with excellent feet, wedded together with a smooth filling. Nodding with approval, I place it on my tongue. She is right; the orange and rose flavors melt lustily in your mouth. It's just like Mama- all bright and full of surprises.

Opportunities, like roses, come with a beautiful fragrance, but also with thorns.

Original daisies are worth more than counterfeit roses.

Other people spoke, and I tried to keep up with the translations. All the stories were about Dimitri's kindness and strength of character. Even when not out battling the undead, Dimitri had always been there to help those who needed it. Almost everyone could recall sometime that Dimitri had stepped up to help others, going out of his way to do what was right, even in situations that could put him at risk. That was no surprise to me. Dimitri always did the right thing. And it was that attitude that had made me love him so much. I had a similar nature. I too rushed in when others needed me, sometimes when I shouldn't have. Others called me crazy for it, but Dimitri had understood. He'd always understood me, and part of what we'd worked on was how to temper that impulsive need to run into danger with reason and calculation. I had a feeling no one else in this world would ever understand me like he did.

Plucking a rose only proves you desire it, but nurturing it proves you love it.

Poetry is seeing everything when there is only one thing. It is looking at a rose but seeing the stars, moons, seas, and trees. It is a truth beyond logic, an experience beyond thought. Poetry is the Earth pausing on its axis in order to manifest itself as a rose.

Poetry without truth, is like a rose without thorns. Still pretty, But sometime the real beauty comes from the things that can make us bleed.

Plus, you're the last Dragomir. You're always going to be in the spotlight. Who’s she? Just another Ivashkov. There are tons of them.' 'Probably because all the guys like Adrian and have all sorts of illegitimate children.' 'Adrian doesn’t have any children.' 'That we know of,' I said mysteriously.

Psalm 37:4 4 Delight thyself also in the LORD: and he shall give thee the desires of thine heart.

Publishing a book of poetry is like dropping a rose petal down the Grand Canyon and waiting for the echo.

Loving for beauty is like vowing a lifetime commitment to a rose. No-matter how sweet-scented or pink "petald", every rose withers.

No matter how beautiful a rose is it must still grow in dirt.

No one had ever called me unnatural before, except for the time I put ketchup on a taco.

Of course I do, Jack! You have to beLIEve me!

Of what use to the flowers are their sweet odors? Do they themselves enjoy them? No. Are they meant for the pleasure of animals? Did you ever see a sheep or a dog pause before a rose to inhale its perfume? Then it was for man alone that the rich treasures are meant. Wherefore? That they may be loved, perhaps.

Our highest assurance of the goodness of Providence seems to me to rest in the flowers. All other things, our powers, our desires, our food, are all really necessary for our existence in the first instance. But this rose is an extra. It's smell and it's color are an embellishment of life, not a condition of it. It is only goodness which gives extras, and so I say again that we have much to hope from the flowers.

Pink, You are gentle and sweet just like this rose. When your rose pink lips smiled at me that first time I remembered how to smile. ~Riley

Rose put down her fork. "Lord Submarine..." "Camarine." "Whatever.

red the colour of the rose red the colour of your lips red the colour of your tongue.... red the colour of your heart...... red the colour of your passion.....

Rose spreads its fragrance His fragrance is his message.

Purple, Wonder, majesty, and enchantment doesn't even begin to cover the feelings that I had the first time that I met you that only grew. The feeling was nameless, but as time went on it developed a name. Eponine, I adore you… ~Riley

Roses do not bloom hurriedly; for beauty, like any masterpiece, takes time to blossom.

Rose, we are here today. Tomorrow we don’t know where life will take us to. So, as long as we have today in our hands, let’s not slip it from our hands. Let’s live it!

She believes in love, in destiny and she knows ...she feels her prince in her destiny. She just has to wait for the right time.....

Seeing the mud around a lotus is pessimism, seeing a lotus in the mud is optimism.

She held up the pen and gave him a lazy grin. "It's a rose." He came close. "It's a pen." He tried to pluck it from her hand. "You are seriously lacking in imagination.

She is not an ordinary girl. She is my fairy who will change my life and make it beautiful with her smiles.

She leaned in to smell the apricot-tinted rose whose petals had just unfolded into a ruffled cup. The scents of lemon, myrrh, and peach floated up, and Sorrel once again wondered why anyone would name a rose Jude the Obscure.

She's the Queen Bitch of Castle Hell. If you mess with her, she'll eat you alive.

She was chaos and beauty intertwined. A tornado of roses from divine.

Sí, pero nosotros estamos vivos, Rose. No podemos dejar de vivir porque otras personas estén muertas

SCORPIUS: I can’t quite believe I did that. ALBUS: I can’t quite believe you did that either. SCORPIUS: Rose Granger-Weasley. I asked out Rose Granger-Weasley. ALBUS: And she said no. SCORPIUS: But I asked her. I planted the acorn. The acorn that will grow into our eventual marriage. ALBUS: You are aware that you’re an utter fantasist.

She is a rose, Jest. Lovely on the eyes, yes, but such thorns are not to be ignored.