Quotes
Quotes about Roses
We may pass violets looking for roses. We may pass contentment looking for victory.
Won't you come into the garden? I would like my roses to see you.
Rarity gives a charm; so early fruits and winter roses are the most prized; and coyness sets off an extravagant mistress, while the door always open tempts no suitor.
They tell me, Lucy, thou art dead, That all of thee we loved and cherished Has with thy summer roses perished; And left, as its young beauty fled, An ashen memory in its stead.
When the swallows homeward fly, When the roses scattered lie, When from neither hill or dale, Chants the silvery nightingale: In these works my bleeding heart Would to thee its brief impart; When I thus thy image lose Can I, ah! can I, e'er know repose?
The rising blushes, which her cheek o'er-spread, Are opening roses in the lily's bed.
While mantling on the maiden's cheek Young roses kindled into thought.
From every blush that kindles in thy cheeks, Ten thousand little loves and graces spring To revel in the roses.
The god-like hero sate On his imperial throne: His valiant peers were placed around, Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound (So should desert in arms be crowned). The lovely Thais by his side, Sate like a blooming Eastern bride In flower of youth and beauty's pride. Happy, happy, happy pair! None but the brave, None but the brave, None but the brave deserve the fair.
I'd be a butterfly, born in a bower, Where roses and lilies and violets meet.
Commemoration of Peter Chanel, Religious, Missionary in the South Pacific, Martyr, 1841 I know the road to Jericho It's in a part of town That's full of factories and filth. I've seen the folks go down, Small folk with roses in their cheeks And starlight in their eyes; And seen them fall among the thieves, And heard their helpless cries. The priests and Levites speeding by Read of the latest crimes In headlines spread in black and red Across the Evening Times. How hard for those in limousines To heal the heart of man! It was a slow-paced ass that bore The Good Samaritan.
As soon Seek roses in December--ice in June, Hope, constancy in wind, or corn in chaff; Believe a woman or an epitaph, Or any other thing that's false, before You trust in critics.
I would I had some flowers o' th' spring that might Become your time of day, and yours, and yours, That wear upon your virgin branches yet Your maidenheads growing. O, Proserpina, For the flowers now that, frighted, thou let'st fall From Dis's wagon; daffodils, That come before the swallow dares, and take The winds of March with beauty; violets dim, But sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes Or Cytherea's breath; pale primroses, That die unmarried, ere they can behold Bright Phoebus in his strength--a malady Most incident to maids; bold oxlips and The crown imperial; lilies of all kinds, The flower-de-luce being one.
Don't strew me with roses after I'm dead. When Death claims the light of my brow No flowers of life will cheer me: instead You may give me my roses now!
There is a garden in her face, Where roses and white lilies blow; A heavenly paradise is that place, Wherein all pleasant fruits do grow. There cherries grow that none may buy, Till cherry ripe themselves do cry.
The flower-girl's prayer to buy roses and pinks, Held out in the smoke, like stars by day.
Mourn, little harebells, o'er the lea; Ye stately foxgloves fair to see! Ye woodbines, hanging bonnilie In scented bowers! Ye roses on your thorny tree The first o' flow'rs.
Some people are always grumbling because roses have thorns. I am thankful that thorns have roses.
On the cold cheek of Death smiles and roses are blending, And beauty immortal awakes from the tomb.
Avoid being impatient. Remember time brings roses.
You can complain because roses have thorns, or you can rejoice because thorns have roses.
So sweet, so sweet the roses in their blowing, So sweet the daffodils, so fair to see; So blithe and gay the humming-bird a going From flower to flower, a-hunting with the bee.
It is the month of June, The month of leaves and roses, When pleasant sights salute the eyes And pleasant scents the noses.
I like not lady-slippers, Not yet the sweet-pea blossoms, Not yet the flaky roses, Red or white as snow; I like the chaliced lilies, The heavy Eastern lilies, The gorgeous tiger-lilies, That in our garden grow.
Love lies bleeding in the bed whereover Roses lean with smiling mouths or pleading: Earth lies laughing where the sun's dart clove her: Love lies bleeding.
