Best 540 quotes in «flowers quotes» category

Flowers enshrine my heart between their petals; that's why my heartbeats love them so much

Flowers in your garden always turn in the direction of light because they instinctively recognize their source of energy, strength & renewal. Let you become the source of light, hope, faith, sincerity, inspiration & love in your world. Let you remind yourself that you are complete in all senses & that you have God gifted beauty, abilities & talents. Let you uncover these gifts, nurture & develop these further to improve yourself & your world. Let your reflection & energy has the potential to transform everything surrounding you in ways that enable them to function at a higher level & ultimately be of greater purpose. Let all your actions, reciprocation & interactions with others & yourself be filled with grace & ease today. Let your body, mind & soul sing together in harmony to make you more happy both inside & outside while ending all kind of pretence, deceit & hypocrisy in you. Let you find more joy, peace & blessings with each passing day. Stay Healthy, Playful & Successful!

Flowers only know to fragrance, nothing else. Be that, to beautify, and perfume the feelings of others.

Flowers are nature's gift of love for you.

Flowers carry not only beauty but also the silent song of love. You just have to feel it.

Flowers that bloom in winter are stronger than flowers that bloom in summer.

Flowers too wither and fall, but they inspire one and all!

Flowers and fruits are always fit presents; flowers, because they are a proud assertion that a ray of beauty outvalues all the utilities of the world. These gay natures contrast with the somewhat stern countenance of ordinary nature: they are like music heard out of a work-house. Nature does not cocker us; we are children, not pets; she is not fond; everything is dealt to us without fear or favor, after severe universal laws. Yet these delicate flowers look like the frolic and interference of love and beauty. Men use to tell us that we love flattery even though we are not deceived by it, because it shows that we are of importance enough to be courted. Something like that pleasure, the flowers give us: what am I to whom these sweet hints are addressed?

Flowers are so inconsistent!

Flowers are the gift to us from nature, out gift to nature is our love.

Flowers of sin, like some black sun, Bloom in my dreams Their perfume-sodden fragrance Spreading through each heartbeat.

Flowers reconnect us to our own beautiful and unique essence as human beings. They wake up our positive qualities so that we feel them and they begin to emanate from us, just as each flower radiates its own unique quality.

Flowers and fruits are always fit presents; flowers, because they are a proud assertion that a ray of beauty outvalues all the utilities of the world.

Flowers for me are just things to give to a beatiful woman.

Flowers – so beautiful – they seemed like they were smiling.

Flowers that are offered for the dead, do not know the difference of where their beauty will be placed, they do not say, "This is not a palace" or "This is not a garden"; they just are. They are just beautiful, without giving regards to whether they are placed on a grave or in a castle. Flowers are just beautiful, whether they grow by the wayside or in a manicured garden. If we were all like flowers, then we would all be beautiful, with no regards to why or how. We just are. We are just beautiful.

For Alice, falling in love was noting else but feeling her insides set on fire. The feeling consumed her, as if she'd somehow always known him and had been searching for him just as long. Here he was.

For Alice, falling in love was nothing else but feeling her insides set on fire. The feeling consumed her, as if she'd somehow always known him and had been searching for him just as long.

For a few heady weeks of the year the steppe in a binge throws out a wilderness of flowers that tangle your hooves and confuse your horse.

For Angelica, relationships were like the flower arrangement she was hiding behind. She plucked a white rose out of it and sniffed at it. Right now, they were beautiful. Perfect. Pristine with a shockingly beautiful scent. But in a day or two, they would be wilting, messily thrown in a waste bin.

For eight years I dreamed of fire. Trees ignited as I passed them; oceans burned. The sugary smoke settled in my hair as I slept, the scent like a cloud left on my pillow as I rose. Even so, the moment my mattress started to burn, I bolted awake. The sharp, chemical smell was nothing like the hazy syrup of my dreams; the two were as different as Carolina and Indian jasmine, separation and attachment. They could not be confused. Standing in the middle of the room, I located the source of the fire. A neat row of wooden matches lined the foot of the bed. They ignited, one after the next, a glowing picket fence across the piped edging. Watching them light, I felt a terror unequal to the size of the flickering flames, and for a paralyzing moment I was ten years old again, desperate and hopeful in a way I had never been before and never would be again. But the bare synthetic mattress did not ignite like the thistle had in late October. It smoldered, and then the fire went out. It was my eighteenth birthday.

French toast? Frittata? Definitely frittata. Leaving the table again, she transferred a small packet from freezer to fridge. It was salmon, home-smoked on the island and more delicious than any she had ever found elsewhere. Smoked salmon wasn't Cecily's doing, but the dried basil and thyme she took from the herb rack were. Taking a vacuum-sealed package of sun-dried tomatoes from the cupboard, she set it on the counter beside the herbs. Frittata, hot biscuits, and fruit salad. With mimosas. And coffee. That sounded right. Eaten out on the deck maybe? No, not on the deck, unless the prevailing winds turned suddenly warm. They would eat here in the kitchen, with whatever flowers the morning produced. Surely more lavender. A woman could never have enough lavender- or daylilies or astilbe, neither of which should bloom this early, but both of which had looked further along than the lavender, yesterday morning, so you never knew.

From golden showers of the ancient skies, On the first day, and the eternal snow of stars, You once unfastened giant calyxes For the young earth still innocent of scars: Young gladioli with the necks of swans, Laurels divine, of exiled souls the dream, Vermilion as the modesty of dawns Trod by the footsteps of the seraphim; The hyacinth, the myrtle gleaming bright, And, like the flesh of woman, the cruel rose, Hérodiade blooming in the garden light, She that from wild and radiant blood arose! And made the sobbing whiteness of the lily That skims a sea of sighs, and as it wends Through the blue incense of horizons, palely Toward the weeping moon in dreams ascends! Hosanna on the lute and in the censers, Lady, and of our purgatorial groves! Through heavenly evenings let the echoes answer, Sparkling haloes, glances of rapturous love! Mother, who in your strong and righteous bosom, Formed calyxes balancing the future flask, Capacious flowers with the deadly balsam For the weary poet withering on the husk.

... from the classically executed lifelike bouquets, tempting you to reach for the petals that fell on a three-dimensional tablecloth, to a new and disturbing style in which the colors seemed to blaze with such intensity they destroyed the old lines, the old solidity, to make a vision like those states which I'm nearest my delirium and flowers grow before my eyes and crackle like the flames of lamps.

Frost kills the flowers that bloom out of season...

Gabby, I told you I'd give you space, but I never said I wouldn't fill your space with flowers. Brad

Gardeners produce flowers that are delicious dreams, and others too that are like nightmares.

Gardens and flowers have a way of bringing people together, drawing them from their homes.

Gnats drifted on the same warm summer breeze that saw colorful paper lanterns swaying on their strings. Lily of the valley filled jam jars at each table, but sweet peas had won out in the battle to fragrance the evening air.

Gods are always ready, their hands are always full with flowers. They simply watch and wait. Whenever somebody becomes a Subhuti, empty, whenever somebody is absent, suddenly the flowers start showering.

Gods must be crazy Flowers must be daisy Clouds must be hazy Winds must be lazy What else it could be… My heart must be in love lately…

...God sometimes sends flowers -but I like it best when he darkens the sky and lights up an infinitude of worlds...

Good things have different colors, it’s like a rainbow or flowers and it’s more likely how I feel for my love ones that creates a joyous melody in my heart. How it makes me feel happy and alive

Grandma Hutto’s flower garden was a bright patchwork quilt thrown down inside the pickets.

Have courage, take heart.

Heat in her birds of prey fingertips, smoke of gilded flowers in her aureate gorging hair.

He didn't look anything like the blokes on that gay porn channel Rory had clicked on by mistake when he'd been trying to find out how to make a daisy chain for Leo.

He kisses her flaws of darkness like they are the softest of flowers on a bright spring day.

Here is a dream-life: A life amongst the flowers!

He saw the kind of beauty yellow flowers have growing over a carpet of dead leaves. The beauty of cracks forming a mosaic in a dry riverbed, of emerald-green algae at the base of a seawall, of a broken shard from a blue bottle. The beauty of a window smudged with tiny prints. The beauty of wild weeds.

He swept the red cloak around Inej's shoulders in a rain of petals and blossoms as she continued to strap on her knives. She looked almost as startled as the flower seller. "What?" he asked as he tossed her a Mister Crimson mask that matched his own. "Those were my mother's favorite flower." "Good to know Van Eck didn't cure you of sentiment." "Nice to be back, Kaz." "Good to have you back, Wraith.

He told her the flowers in her painting contained exactly the purple substance of the flowers on the desk in front of her [...] Let us open the window and see if your painting can entice the butterflies.

he was so beautiful because when he held her he was not concerned with ‘being a man.’ ‘being a man’ had nothing to do with this. these flowers pouring from his chest. – weightless

He who does not know how to appreciate flowers will not be able to see the beauty of life

His love for me seemed to overflow my limits by its flood of wealth and service. But my necessity was more for giving than foe receiving; for love is a vagabond, who can make his flowers bloom in the wayside dust, better than in the crystal jars kept in the drawing-room.

Hobbies are like flowers on plant. They make the plant look beautiful and feel Proud.

How can there be too many children? That is like saying there are too many flowers." ~ Mother Teresa of Calcutta

How beautiful the house was with its magnolia trees lining the drive, their branches outstretched as if they were beckoning him inside. Rose tipped blossoms caught the last of the sun’s golden light, giving the flowers an ethereal glow that shimmered and looked magical.

How is it you can talk so nicely?' Alice said, hoping to get it into a better temper by a compliment. 'I've been in many gardens before, but none of the flowers could talk.' 'Put your hand down, and feel the ground,' said the Tiger-lily. 'Then you'll know why.' Alice did so. 'It's very hard,' she said, 'but I don't see what that has to do with it.' 'In most gardens,' the Tiger-lily said, 'they make the beds too soft - so that the flowers are always asleep.

Humble yourself, and you will find that Love is spreading a carpet of flowers beneath your feet.