Our lives are a mosaic of little things, like putting a rose in a vase on the table.
Trust is like a vase.. once it's broken, though you can fix it, the vase will never be same again.
Clay is used to make vases, but it is the emptiness they contain that makes them useful.
Break a vase, and the love that reassembles the fragments is stronger than that love which took its symmetry for granted when it was whole.
A flowerless room is a soulless room, to my way of thinking; but even a solitary little vase of a living flower may redeem it.
The flower in the vase smiles, but no longer laughs.
You may break, you may shatter the vase, if you will, But the scent of the roses will hang round it still.
Flowers are an education in a vase.
I love all things, not only the grand but the infinitely small: thimble, spurs, plates, flower vases.
The beauty of modesty ... a virtue the world doesn't have much truck with: one ordinary flower in a vase, as opposed to a bouquet.
Trying to change ourselves in order to please others - so that we can feel temporarily whole for having won their approval - is like cutting a flower into pieces so that it will fit into a vase.
Poetical spaces too can be painted like a vase.
No flower is happy in a vase, because vase is nothing but an ornate coffin for the flower.
It was intended to be a vase, it has turned out a pot.
Friendship is a vase, which, when it is flawed by heat, or violence, or accident, may as well be broken at once; it can never be trusted after.
A vase of flowers or greens will bring even a dull hotel room to life in the most delightful way. The small amount of trouble or expense involved is honestly repaid in real decorative effect. If you find cut flowers too extravagant, stick to the greens. Laurel, rhododendron leaves, huckleberry or pine will all last many days, even weeks.
An hour is not merely an hour, it is a vase full of scents and sounds and projects and climates.
But it is not for the perfect vase or the polished gem to choose their owners.
I think acting is about forgetting yourself in order to give the best of yourself. It's passing through you more than you're creating it. You're not the flower, but the vase which holds the flower.
You know you're in love with somebody when you wake up next to them, comfortable despite your breath smelling like the week-old water at the bottom of a vase, when you are terribly excited to see them, to talk to them again, having missed them after all that sleep.
There’s something amazing about this life. The very same worldly attribute that causes us pain is also what gives us relief: Nothing here lasts. What does that mean? It means that the breathtakingly beautiful rose in my vase will wither tomorrow. It means that my youth will neglect me. But it also means that the sadness I feel today will change tomorrow. My pain will die. My laughter won’t last forever but neither will my tears. We say this life isn’t perfect. And it isn’t. It isn’t perfectly good. But, it also isn’t perfectly bad, either.
If we'd put them in a vase in the living room, they would have been everyone's flowers. I wanted them to be my flowers.
You can only mend the vase so many times before you have to chuck it away.
A fine glass vase goes from treasure to trash, the moment it is broken. Fortunately, something else happens to you and me. Pick up your pieces. Then, help me gather mine.
I have learned over a period of time to be almost unconsciously grateful--as a child is--for a sunny day, blue water, flowers in a vase, a tree turning red. I have learned to be glad at dawn and when the sky is dark. Only children and a few spiritually evolved people are born to feel gratitude as naturally as they breathe, without even thinking. Most of us come to it step by painful step, to discover that gratitude is a form of acceptance.
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