flowers

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

Passion is a rare flower that grows on the precipice of death. A few snatch it, and the rest are like an ox chewing its cud in a field.

Grandma Hutto__ flower garden was a bright patchwork quilt thrown down inside the pickets.

Little flowers get more attention than the big mountains simply because they emit love around themselves!

Real love ought to be more like a tree and less like a flower

Agatha surveys the garden, its rows of crinkled spring cabbages and beanstalks entwining bowers of hawthorn and hazel. The rosemary is dotted with pale blue stars of blossom and chives nod heads of tousled purple. New sage leaves sprout silver green among the brittle, frost-browned remains of last year's growth. Lily of the valley, she thinks, that will be out in the cloister garden at Saint Justina's by now.

....breakups mean flowers.

Yorkshire had none of the color I'd known in Cape Town- the vivid pinks and purples of the freesias and arum lilies in the flower sellers' baskets. Yorkshire had none of the fragrant floral perfume, or the tang of salt in the air from the ocean.

I love to see the bud bursting into maturity; I love to mark the deepening tints with which the beams of heaven paint the expanded flower; nay, with a melancholy sort of pleasure, I love to watch that progress towards decay, so endearingly bespeaking a fellowship in man's transient glory

The violets in the mountains have broken the rocks.

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.

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.

I'll catch any rose in my vase-shaped heart, then process it through my vascular system, until there's nothing left.

One must also have faith to grow flowers...

The Origin of VioletsI know, blue modest violets,Gleaming with dew at morn-I know the place you come fromAnd the way that you are born!When God cut holes in Heaven,The holes the stars look through,He let the scraps fall down to earth,-The little scraps are you.

Who wants flowers when you're dead? Nobody.

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

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