Someday you will name me, then gently place those burning holy roses in my hair.
How did it happen that their lips came together? How does it happen that birds sing, that snow melts, that the rose unfolds, that the dawn whitens behind the stark shapes of trees on the quivering summit of the hill? A kiss, and all was said.
I once had a rose named after me and I was very flattered. But I was not pleased to read the description in the catalogue: no good in a bed, but fine up against a wall.
The optimist sees the rose and not its thorns; the pessimist stares at the thorns, oblivious to the rose.
It will never rain roses: when we want to have more roses we must plant more trees.
And the rose like a nymph to the bath addrest, Which unveiled the depth of her glowing breast, Till, fold after fold, to the fainting air, The soul of her beauty and love lay bare.
There is no salvation for the soul but to fall in Love. Only lovers can escape out of these two worlds. This was ordained in creation. Only from the heart can you reach the sky: The Rose of Glory can grow only from the heart.
What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.
But friendship is the breathing rose, with sweets in every fold.
You may break, you may shatter the vase, if you will, But the scent of the roses will hang round it still.
Smiles are to people as sunshine is to the roses.
The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem For that sweet odour which doth in it live.
Loveliest of lovely things are they, On earth, that soonest pass away. The rose that lives its little hour Is prized beyond the sculptured flower.
The first man to compare the cheeks of a young woman to a rose was obviously a poet; the first to repeat it was possibly an idiot.
Then will I raise aloft the milk-white rose. For whose sweet smell the air shall be perfumed.
The seasons alter: hoary-headed frosts Fall in the fresh lap of the crimson rose.
The most desired gift of love is not diamonds or roses or chocolate. It's focused attention.
I cast my heart into my rhymes, That you, in the dim coming times, May know how my heart went with them After the red-rose-bordered hem.
A rose is the visible result of an infinitude of complicated goings on in the bosom of the earth and in the air above, and similarly a work of art is the product of strange activities in the human mind.
And I will make thee beds of roses, And a thousand fragrant posies.
If the rose puzzled its mind over the question how it grew, it would not have been the miracle that it is.
No mistake about it. Ice is cold; roses are red; I'm in love. And this love is about to carry me off somewhere. The current's too overpowering; I don't have any choice. It may very well be a special place, some place I've never seen before. Danger may be lurking there, something that may end up wounding me deeply, fatally. I might end up losing everything. But there's no turning back. I can only go with the flow. Even if it means I'll be burned up, gone forever.
I have crushed the cup of youth like a rose between my fingers but its nectar never warmed my weary heart.
Long live the rose that grew from the concrete when no one else ever cared!
Gather the roses of life today.
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