Let life be beautiful like summer flowers and death like autumn leaves.
Words, like flowers, have their colors too.
You have it in your power to make your days on Earth a path of flowers, instead of a path of thorns.
You're only here for a short visit. Don't hurry, don't worry. And be sure to smell the flowers along the way.
There are some of us who can live without wild things, and some who cannot. For us of the minority, the opportunity to see geese or wild flowers is a right as inalienable as free speech.
Now the leaves are falling fast, Nurse’s flowers will not last, Nurses to their graves are gone, But the prams go rolling on.
Flowers and plants are silent presences. They nourish every sense except the ear.
Before the flowers of friendship faded friendship faded.
Science confounds everything; it gives to the flowers an animal appetite, and takes away from even the plants their chastity.
I look for myself but find no one. I belong to the chrysanthemum hour of bright flowers placed in tall vases. I should make an ornament of my soul.
I love getting my nails done. My mom's best friend is a manicurist. When I was little, she'd do little paintings on my nails, like flowers.
Sweet April showers do spring May flowers.
Everyone is entitled to a home where the sun, the stars, open fields, giant trees, and smiling flowers are free to teach an undisturbed lesson of life.
Sell the public flowers. . . things that they can hang on their walls without being uptight.
I am against the florists and floristry! Let the flowers not be the toys of our pleasures!
All beings are flowers blossoming In a blossoming universe.
The would-bees take their honey from the flowers of creation.
It is so appropriate to color hope yellow, like the sun we seldom saw. And as I begin to copy from the old memorandum journals that I kept for so long, a title comes as if inspired. 'Open the Window and Stand in the Sunshine. ' Yet, I hesitate to name our story that. For I think of us more as flowers in the attic.
And. . . I think that's what life is all about, actually, about children and flowers.
Dark the Night, with breath all flowers, And tender broken voice that fills With ravishment the listening hours,-- Whisperings, wooings, Liquid ripples, and soft ring-dove cooings In low-toned rhythm that love's aching stills! Dark the night Yet is she bright, For in her dark she brings the mystic star, Trembling yet strong, as is the voice of love, From some unknown afar.