Best 540 quotes in «flowers quotes» category

This time of year, the purple blooms were busy with life- not just the bees, but butterflies and ladybugs, skippers and emerald-toned beetles, flitting hummingbirds and sapphire dragonflies. The sun-warmed sweet haze of the blossoms filled the air. "When I was a kid," said Isabel, "I used to capture butterflies, but I was afraid of the bees. I'm getting over that, though." The bees softly rose and hovered over the flowers, their steady hum oddly soothing. The quiet buzzing was the soundtrack of her girlhood summers. Even now, she could close her eyes and remember her walks with Bubbie, and how they would net a monarch or swallowtail butterfly, studying the creature in a big clear jar before setting it free again. They always set them free. As she watched the activity in the hedge, a memory floated up from the past- Bubbie, gently explaining to Isabel why they needed to open the jar. "No creature should ever be trapped against its will," she used to say. "It will ruin itself, just trying to escape." As a survivor of a concentration camp, Bubbie only ever spoke of the experience in the most oblique of terms.

Those are my bougainvillea—I got Victoria to plant them today, but I don;t know if they will survive. But Right now they have the appearance of survival, which is almost the same thing.

Thoughts flit in and out of my mind like floating white dandelion seed-heads. What if the mole is cancerous?

They appeared to me like a thin veil of mist, translucent, almost- not quite there. But for all their misty peculiarity, they were as clear to me as the minnows in the shallows and the foxgloves on the riverbank and the butterflies fanning their wings. They flitted from flower to flower, as swift as dragonflies, sometimes glowing brightly like a candle flame suddenly catching, sometimes fading like a breath of warm air on glass, so that you would never know they had been there at all. Yet there they were. And there I was, watching them.

Through the Mud (from the book Blue Bridge) A line of robots, We approach a wall of mud, Some of us carrying flowers. The others laugh Bit when we enter that wall It is the flowers That will make us an ark To carry us on through the darkness, Sailing through With our symbols the only light Until we fly Out over the fields On the other side of midnight And all our wires And bits of metal fall off.- And our souls are bright again, So new and light They shoot up – Up to plant our brilliant flowers Like stars In the face of heaven.

Tonight Ray will tape the the drenched oasis inside of the silver bowl that sits on the top of the candelabra and fill it with the pale green hydrangeas, pink English garden roses, lilies of the valley, and extravagant lavender sweet peas that R.L., the local florist/antique dealer, delivered a few hours ago. The flowers are all soaking in their respective sugar water jugs in her kitchen- out of the direct sunlight, of course- as is the oasis which she'll mold into every bowl and vase in the house with a similar arrangement. She's even going to make an arrangement in a flat sweetgrass basket to hang on the front door and a round little pomander of pale green hydrangea with a sheer white ribbon for Little Hilda to hold as she greets the guests in the foyer. Ray is tempted to snip the last blossoms of gardenias growing secretly behind Cousin Willy's shed. In her estimation they are the quintessential wedding flower, with their intoxicating fragrance and their delicate cream petals surrounded by those dark, waxy leaves. She bought the seedlings when R.L. and the gals weren't looking at the Southern Gardener's Convention in Atlanta four years ago, and no one has any idea she's been growing them. Sometimes she worries that the fragrance will give her away, but they bloom the same time as the confederate jasmine, which grows along the lattice work of the shed, and she can always blame the thick smell on them. It would take a truly trained nose to pick the gardenias out, and Ray possesses the trained nose of the bunch.

Treat your relationship as if you are growing the most beautiful sacred flower. Keep watering it, tend to the roots, and always make sure the petals are full of color and are never curling. Once you neglect your plant, it will die, as will your relationship.

Tropical trees had been planted throughout the room, along with bright flowering plants that were busy committing the olfactory floral equivalent of aggravated assault.

Trust yourself. Trust your story. All you can do is tell it true.

Truth cannot be changed. When all the flowers of the world are dead, there will still be a true thing that is a flower.

Try to pause each day and take a walk to view nature.

Use your senses to SEE yourself for who you truly are. SMELL the flowers and become one with nature. TASTE the goodness of God. HEAR the truth. TOUCH the hearts of others with kindness and honest deeds.

Vase [Why weep Come back tomorrow There are also poisonous flowers and flowers always open in the evening she loves the cinema she has been in Russia Love married with disdain Pearl-studded watch a trip to Montrouge Maisons- Lafitte and everything finishes in perfumes remember Let the flower bloom and let the fruit rot and let the grain sprout while the storms rage]

Water Lilies' is an extension of my life. Without the woter the lilies cannot live, as I am without art.

We came to a clearing and stopped. Dark green vines with oblong leaves and purple flowers in pairs grew everywhere- under our feet, around tree trunks and small shrubs, in a circle at least thirty feet wide. Fat green-eyed insects buzzed lazily around the blossoms. A heavy, luscious fragrance filled the air. "Honeysuckle!" I plucked a couple of flowers and took a moment to appreciate the dark purple petals that faded to lavender and then white at their base. I brought one to my nose and sniffed. My cousins had a vine like this at their house in India. But these blossoms were gargantuan, each one the size of my palm. I pinched off the green cap that held the petals together, pulled on the little string that was exposed, and tasted the small glob of nectar that glistened at the end. My mouth burst with sweetness.

We humans speak many languages; flowers on the contrary speak only one language: The language of beauty!

Well, think about it for a minute. A guy tells you that he loves you and then turns around and buys you flowers…or worse, tells you that he loves you with flowers. Cut flowers die. They die in a few days after being cut…and this is what you guys choose to use as proof of your love? Something that dies in a few days? To me it seems like foreshadowing or something, like your basically saying that our love is beautiful but only for a limited time and then it will wither away to nothing like your flowers.

We need to spread more seeds and fill this Planet with love to be surrounded by flowers just everywhere! It starts by simply opening up our hearts and hands to one another. It's in simple things where true Happiness may flourish.

What a lucky girl you are to have found this place and with it your story, Alice. What a lucky girl you are to get the chance to learn and know where you come from and who you belong to.

What a lovely thing a rose is!" He walked past the couch to the open window and held up the drooping stalk of a moss-rose, looking down at the dainty blend of crimson and green. It was a new phase of his character to me, for I had never before seen him show any keen interest in natural objects. "There is nothing in which deduction is so necessary as religion," said he, leaning with his back against the shutters. "It can be built up as an exact science by the reasoner. 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. Its smell and its 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.

What a face this girl possessed!—could I not gaze at it every day I would need to recreate it through painting, sculpture, or fatherhood until a second such face is born. Her face, at once innocent and feral, soft and wild! Her mouth voluptuous. Eyes deep as oceans, her eyes as wide as planets. I likened her to the slender Psyché and judged that the perfection of her face ennobled everything unclean around her: the dusty hems of her bunched-up skirt, the worn straps of her nightshirt; the blackened soles of her tiny bare feet, the coal-stained balcony bricks upon which she sat, and that dusty wrought-ironwork that framed her perch. All this and the pungent air!—almost foul, with so many odors. Ô, that and the spicy night! …Pungency, spice, filth and night, dust and light; all things dark did blossom in sight; flower and bloom, the night has its pearl too—the moon! And once a month it will make the face of this tender girl bloom.

What branch does not have its leaves and which twig will not have its flowers?

What I learned from the flowers: to live effortlessly.

What makes it smell so sweet?" they wanted to know. "Because everything,--every little wild plum-blossom, every little tiny crocus and anemone and violet and every tree-bud and grass-blade is working to help make the prairie nice.

When considering female human beings, we should ask ourselves what kind of organisms become overjoyed when presented with decapitated plants as gifts? I suppose we should consider ourselves fortunate they do not become overjoyed when presented with decapitated animals as gifts.

Whenever we see a deserted rose, we immediately think about a broken relationship and we imagine the sadness they went through without thinking the poor dead rose ever!

When I first discovered the world of paper flower crafts, I was immediately excited and quickly consumed with all the possibilities.

When I was younger, my mom loved to garden. But the flowers would never grow. She kept planting seeds even thought nothing would grow. She just kept trying.' 'I don't understand.' 'Because you can't.' 'What does this have to do with anything?' I don't fiddle with my fingers and there's no apology on the tip of my tongue when I say, 'I am my mother's son.

When I was younger, my mom loved to garden. But the flowers would never grow. She just kept trying.' 'I don't understand.' 'Because you can't.' 'What does this have to do with anything?' I don't fiddle with my fingers and there's no apology on the tip of my tongue when I say, 'I am my mother's son.

The huge ears flapped and it lifted its head to show off the long curving tusks adorned with flowers made by the children. When the animatronic mammoth trumpeted triumphantly, windows a mile away vibrated and locals called the police.

Through the rose garden, the path ran straight ahead to the mass of mauve wisteria, now past its best. At ground level, Ellie could see now that it formed a tunnel leading deeper into the garden, gnarled trunks growing over a long wooden frame that was rotten in places. At the end was a green space the size of a large room, walled by a hedge of clipped myrtle. From all sides white trumpets of datura hung down, smelling faintly of coffee. "I've never seen such a display," said Ellie. "My mother planted them many years ago. Moonflowers." "Also known as devil's trumpet." "Angel's trumpet, too. Or so she told me.

Trees were not hard, irritable things, but discreetly orgasmic beings moaning at a level too deep for our brutish ears. And flowers were quick explosive orgasms, like making love in the shower.

Trust me: if it doesn’t match: it will clash! Focusing on a stunning complimentary color instead of a close-but-not-quite-right one is one of the most helpful contributions you can make to the design.

Until we’re pushing up daisies, it might be good to remind ourselves daily that everything’s coming up roses — for me and for you.

Use the water of encouragement on someone else's flowers - especially the flowers that are wilted, trampled on, and taken for granted. But don't nourish the weeds.

Walk down any sidewalk in any city and eventually you’ll find a flower growing out of a crack in the concrete, tenaciously grasping for life, barely enough earth for it to clench hold of. This little flower has seeded, sprouted, and blossomed, despite thousands of feet walking over and around it every day. This flower is a survivor, thriving better than if it were in my Aunt Tilda’s fucking backyard garden with her fussing over it day and night and giving it all the goddamned care she thought it needed. Yeah, eventually, some careless asshole’s gonna trample and kill that flower, but another one’s gonna replace it. [...] I’ll always believe in you, Raeburn. You just have to find another crack in the sidewalk and blossom. Don’t be another Kurt Cobain. Don’t give up. People need you.

We are often given pills or fluids to help remedy illness, yet little has been taught to us about the power of smell to do the exact same thing. It is known that the scent of fresh rosemary increases memory, but this cure for memory loss is not divulged by doctors to help the elderly. I also know that the most effective use of the blue lotus flower is not from its dilution with wine or tea – but from its scent. To really maximize the positive effects of the blue lily (or the pink lotus), it must be sniffed within minutes of plucking. This is why it is frequently shown being sniffed by my ancient ancestors on the walls of temples and on papyrus. Even countries across the Orient share the same imagery. The sacred lotus not only creates a relaxing sensation of euphoria, and increases vibrations of the heart, but also triggers genetic memory - and good memory with an awakened heart ushers wisdom.

We are vastly more powerful than we think we are. With a little support from flowers, we can recognize how deeply we affect others with our own energy and presence. We can cultivate a sharper awareness of our impact in the world.

Well, I must endure the presence of two or three caterpillars if I wish to become acquainted with the butterflies. It seems that they are very beautiful. And if not the butterflies– and the caterpillars– who will call upon me? You will be far away. . . as for the large animals– I am not at all afraid of any of them. I have my claws.” And, navely, she showed her four thorns. Then she added: “Don’t linger like this. You have decided to go away. Now go!” For she did not want him to see her crying. She was such a proud flower. . .

We may not have a new roof by then. But we will have flowers. Far more important, wouldn't you agree?

We should learn from flowers, earthly stars which spend their entire lives shining, shining and growing despite all the difficulties they encounter. They know how to listen and understand the whispers of time, for it is an eternal friend that teaches the importance of friendship and sparkling hope.

When admiring other people's gardens, don't forget to tend to your own flowers.

When a flower doesn’t bloom, you fix the environment in which it grows, not the flower.

When the time has come, every leaf turns to face the sun!

When the time has come, every leaf turns to face the sun! It doesn't know if it has to, but because the call has reached it: Not knowing what to expect, it will, move slightly, twist patiently and try to embrace whatever is coming! It might be too strong, it might be too weak, it also might just be perfect!

When they got to their hotel she went straight up to bed, but he paused to get a drink. There was, in the vestibule, a flower stall and he bought a handful of roses, stiffly wired into a bouquet, before proceeding to the oppressive gorgeousness of their bridal suite. The lift was lined with looking glass, so that as he shot upwards he got an endlessly duplicated version of himself, stout and nervous, a light cloak flung over his shoulder and flowers in his hand: an infinitely long row of gentlemen carrying offerings to an unforgiving past.

When you smell a flower, it also smells you!

While I worked, I thought about Earl's wife, tried to bring forth an image of the once-passionate woman: her tired, withdrawn, unsuspecting face. Would she react to the wild bouquet of mums and periwinkle, truth and tender recollections? I felt sure she would, and imagined the relief and gratitude on Earl's face as he boiled water for tea, provoking the opinionated woman he had missed into a discussion of politics or poetry.

White contains a balance of all colors in the spectrum, representing both the positive and negative aspects of all colors. Given it’s properties and undeniable associations with purity, white tends to amplify and reflect other colors and textures in it’s path. This is probably why I’m often asked to design white on white florals for marketing initiatives. The blooms add a delicate and feminine touch to the brand message, while allowing the product or idea to stand tall and look high-end.

Wildflowers burst from the ground in vivid blues and whites and violets, creating a picture more pleasing than anything her hands could design. She didn't understand how it was possible, but Evan had been right. The abundance of snow had produced an abundance of wildflowers. More than she's ever seen before. Somehow, those cold, lifeless winter months had prepared the land for something breathtaking. Something beautiful. Something brimming with life.