Things bloosom in their time. They bud and bloom, blossom and fade. Everything in its time.
A bud is a flower-to-be. A flower in waiting. Waiting for just the right warmth and care to open up. It's a little fist of love waiting to unfold and be seen by the world. And that's you.
Don't try to force anything. Let life be a deep let-go. God opens millions of flowers everyday without forcing their buds
A flower is not better when it blooms than when it is merely a bud; at each stage it is the same thing — a flower in the process of expressing its potential.
This bud of love, by summer's ripening breath, May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet
It takes courage to push yourself to places you have never been before... to test your limits... to break through barriers. And the day came when the risk it took to stay tight inside the bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.
Gather the flowers, but spare the buds.
Never yet was a springtime, when the buds forgot to bloom.
One day I shall burst my bud of calm and blossom into hysteria.
Each one of us has it in themselves to be a free spirit, just as every rose bud has in it a rose.
The bud may have a bitter taste, But sweet will be the flower.
Look deeply; I arrive in every second to be a bud on a spring branch ... to be a jewel hiding itself in a stone.
I think of the flower in the bud: huddled, compressed, dark. Yet somehow it feels the night, knows moon from sun. It waits...waits.
And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.
The bud of victory is always in the truth.
While rose-buds scarcely show'd their hue, But coyly linger'd on the thorn.
Everything speaks: the flowing airstream and the sailing halycon, the blade of grass, the flower, the bud, the element; did you imagine the universe to be otherwise?
Yet writers say, as in the sweetest bud The eating canter dwells, so eating love Inhabits in the finest wits of all.
I love color. It must submit to me. And I love art. I kneel before it, and it must become mine. Everything around me glows with passion. Every day reveals a new red flower, glowing, scarlet red. Everyone around me carries them. Some wear them quietly hidden in their hearts. And they are like poppies just opening, of which one can see only here and there a hint of red petal peeking out from the green bud.
From barren brown stems to glistening leaf-buds; from the leaf-buds to snowy virginity of bloom…It was like a flute song forgotten in another existence and remembered again. What? How? Why? This singing she heard that had nothing to do with her ears. The rose of the world was breathing out smell. It followed her through all her waking moments and caressed her in her sleep.
You are nipping in the bud fancies which I let blossom. The shore is safer, but I love to buffet the sea - I can count the bitter wrecks here in these pleasant waters, and hear the murmuring winds, but oh, I love the danger!
A word is a bud attempting to become a twig. How can one not dream while writing? It is the pen which dreams. The blank page gives the right to dream.
Still more labyrinthine buds the rose.
The great and amorous sky curved over the earth, and lay upon her as a pure lover. The rain, the humid flux descending from heaven for both man and animal, for both thick and strong, germinated the wheat, swelled the furrows with fecund mud and brought forth the buds in the orchards. And it is I who empowered these moist espousals, I the great Aphrodite.
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May.
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