Best 977 quotes in «rose quotes» category

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

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.

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.

Original daisies are worth more than counterfeit roses.

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

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.

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

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.

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

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

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.

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

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.

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

Rose spreads its fragrance His fragrance is his message.

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.....

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!

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

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.

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

She might not be cinderella to lose her shoe to find her prince or Rapunzel for that matter who will lift him up to set her free only to be lost in him, or Snow-white to be kissed and awakened by a Prince or any other princesses but yet she knows, she believes her destiny has a Prince in store for her - Her man. She would be his Princess and he would be her prince.

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

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

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'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

...sometimes we can’t enjoy the bloom of a rose because we’re too busy crying over being pricked by the thorn.

sixty years old and lives for the 3 f's--friends, family, and France.

So, if he wants to treat me like I’m ten instead of twenty, that’s okay. If he wants to have one of his company cars take me and pick me up from school, that’s okay. And if he insists that I live with him until I graduate college, that’s okay. But I’ll be damned if he’s going to stop me from seeing Christian.

Somehow my soul remembers it all, hers doesn't.

Sometimes the purpose of the rose is simply to draw attention to the rose.

So, regarding that tidbit about your having a fertile imagination when it comes to private activities," she said, fighting off anxiety. "Was it another lie?" "Depends on how you look at it. It's not exactly a lie, and if you come with me to the Weird, you'll find that rumors of my 'creativity' when it comes to bed games with the opposite sex do exist. I started them myself and managed them very carefully. The trick with rumors is to feed them once in a while, so they don't die.

Some thorns have roses.

Stop fighting me!" he said, trying to pull on the arm he held. He was in a precarious position himself, straddling the rail as he tried to lean over far enough to get me and actually hold onto me. “Let go of me!” I yelled back. But he was too strong and managed to haul most of me over the rail, enough so that I wasn’t in total danger of falling again. See, here’s the thing. In that moment before I let go, I really had been contemplating my death. I’d come to terms with it and accepted it. I also, however, had known Dimitri might do something exactly like this. He was just that fast and that good. That was why I was holding my stake in the hand that was dangling free. I looked him in the eye. "I will always love you." Then I plunged the stake into his chest. It wasn’t as precise a blow as I would have liked, not with the skilled way he was dodging. I struggled to get the stake in deep enough to his heart, unsure if I could do it from this angle. Then, his struggles stopped. His eyes stared at me, stunned, and his lips parted, almost into a smile, albeit a grisly and pained one. "That’s what I was supposed to say. . .” he gasped out. Those were his last words.

So what if he is not part of my present but he is in my future, I know. And everyday I'm going a step closer to my future, to him.

Stars do not hide from darkness. Roses do not hide from thorns. Diamonds do not hide from pressure.

The flames rose and the properties devalued into ash.

THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN ME AND YOU When I hold a rose, I see the soft, velvety petals and smile, because tucked between those precious petals is a special gift - the one of a fragrance, pure and sweet. When you hold a rose, you see the thorns along the stem, and you frown because those thorns can bring you pain and cause you to bleed. I see the gift. You see the tragedy. More and more I fear that one of these days someone will hand me a rose and all I will see are thorns. Talk about tragedy.

The evening Bartolomeo left her the radish rose, he also ignored the words of her gray-haired mother and gave Stella an extra serving of pappardelle, made fresh from ricotta, eggs, and goat milk, fried to perfection and dusted in sugar. They were called "gobble-ups" for a good reason, and the principessa was pleased to indulge, that is until her mother bade Bartolomeo to take the plate away. She glared at her mother and snatched one last fritter. Sugar coated the edge of her pretty lips and Bartolomeo thought he might swoon. He would give anything to kiss the sweetness away. The rose was gone when he went to clear the plates. He could only hope she had secreted it away in the finely embroidered saccoccia hanging at her hip.

The next gen won't ever know the thrill of finding an old, desiccated rose buried inside a book. Because none would be reading books anyway.

The loveliest roses sometimes bear the ugliest thorns.