rose quotes
I know the colour rose, and it is lovely, But not when it ripens in a tumour; And healing greens, leaves and grass, so springlike, In limbs that fester are not springlike.
Al night by the rose, rose, Al night by the rose I lay, Dorst ich nought the rose stele, And yet I bar the flour away.
The rose is red, the leaves are green, God save Elizabeth, our noble queen.
I am the rose of Sharon, and the lily of the valleys. As the lilyamong thorns, so is my love among the daughters.
O rose, thou art sick! The invisible worm That flies in the night, In the howling storm, Has found out thy bed Of crimson joy, And his dark secret love Does thy life destroy.
Nor will the sweetest delight of gardens afford much comfort in sleep; wherein the dullness of that sense shakes hands with delectable odours; and though in the bed of Cleopatra, can hardly with any delight raise up the ghost of a rose.
And my fause Luver staw my rose, But, ah! he left the thorn wi'me.
O my Luve's like a red, red rose That's newly sprung in June; O my luve's like the melodie That's sweetly play'd in tune. As fair art thou, my bonie lass, So deep in luve am I; And I will luve thee still, my Dear, Till a'the seas gang dry. Till a'the seas gang dry, my Dear, And the rocks melt wi' the sun: O I will love thee still, my Dear, While the sands o' life shall run.
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.
Yo persigo una forma que no encuentra mi estilo, boto n de pensamiento que busca ser la rosa; se anuncia con un beso que en mis labios se posa al abrazo imposible de laVenus de Milo. I seek a form that my style cannot discover, a bud of thought that wants to be a rose; it is heralded by a kiss that is placed on my lips in the impossible embrace of theVenus de Milo.
Viva la the New Brigade! Viva la the Old One, too! Viva la, the Rose shall fade, And the Shamrock shine for ever new!
Oh, no man knows Through what wild centuries Roves back the rose.
And all shall be well and All manner of thing shall be well When the tongues of flame are in-folded Into a crowned knot of fire And the fire and the rose are one.
Reachmea rose, honey, and pour mea last drop intothat there crystal glass.
How splendid in the morning glows the lily; with what grace he throws His supplication to the rose.
What use the green river, the gold place, if time and death pinned human in the pocket of my land not rest from taking underground the green all-willowed and white rose and bean flower and morning-mist picnic of song in pepper-pot breast of thrush?
Children are dumb to say how hot the day is, How hot the scent is of the summer rose.
Go happy rose, and interwove With other flowers, bind my love. Tell her too, she must not be, Longer flowing, longer free, That so oft has fetter'd me.
Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose, Flushing his brow, and in his painted heart Made purple riot.
As though a rose should shut, and be a bud again.
The rose of all the world is not for me. I want for my part Only the little white rose of Scotland That smells sharp and sweetand breaks the heart.
Writing a book of poetry is like dropping a rose petal down the Grand Canyon and waiting for the echo.
Thus with the year Seasons return, but not to me returns Day, or the sweet approach of ev'n or morn, Or sight of vernal bloom, or summer's rose, Or flocks, or herds, of human face divine; But cloud instead, and ever-during dark Surrounds me, from the cheerful ways of men Cut off, and for the book of knowledge fair Presented with a universal blank Of nature's works to me expunged and razed, And wisdom at one entrance quite shut out.
Flowers of all hue, and without thorn the rose.
'Tis the last rose of summer Left blooming alone; All her lovely companions Are faded and gone.
Why is it no one ever sent me yet One perfect limousine, do you suppose? Ah no, it's always just my luck to get One perfect rose.
The growth of a large business is merelya survival of the fittest The American Beauty rose can be produced in the splendor and fragrance which bring cheer to its beholder only by sacrificing the early buds which grow up around it. 692
In me the tiger sniffs the rose.
And the rose like a nymph to the bath addressed, Which unveiled the depth of her glowing breast, Till, fold after fold, to the fainting air The soul of her beautyand love lay bare.
So passeth, in the passing of a day, Of mortal life the leaf, the bud, the flower, No more doth flourish after first decay, That erst was sought to deck both bed and bower, Of manya lady, and many a paramour: Gather therefore the rose, whilst yet is prime, For soon comes age, that will her pride deflower: Gather the rose of love, whilst yet is time, Whilst loving thou mayst love' d be with equal crime.
Rose is a rose is a rose is a rose, is a rose.
For the crown of our life as it closes Is darkness, the fruit thereof dust; No thorns go as deep as a rose's, And love is more cruel than lust. Time turns the old days to derision, Our loves into corpses or wives; And marriage and death and division Make barren our lives.
If love were what the rose is, And I were like the leaf, Our lives would grow together In sad or singing weather, Blown fields or flowered closes, Green pleasure or grey grief.
Come into the garden, Maud, For the black bat, night, has flown, Come into the garden, Maud, I am here at the gate alone; Maud And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad, And the musk of the rose is blown. For a breeze of morning moves, And the planet of Love is on high, Beginning to faint in the light that she loves On a bed of daffodil sky.
Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls.
There has fallen a splendid tear From the passion-flower at the gate. She is coming, my dove, my dear; She is coming, my life, my fate; The red rose cries,'She is near, she is near;' And the white rose weeps,'She is late;' The larkspur listens,'I hear, I hear;' And the lily whispers,'I wait.' She is coming, my own, my sweet; Were it ever so airya tread, My heart would hear her and beat, Were it earth in an earthy bed; My dust would hear her and beat; Had I lain for a century dead; Would start and tremble under her feet, And blossom in purple and red.
The force that through the green fuse drives the flower Drives my green age; that blasts the roots of trees Is my destroyer. And I am dumb to tell the crooked rose My youth is bent by the same wintry fever.
The fairest things have fleetest end, Their scent survives their close: But the rose's scent is bitterness To him that loved the rose.
Go, lovely rose, Tell her that wastes her time and me, That now she knows, When I resemble her to thee, How sweet and fair she seems to be.
Rose of all Roses,Rose of all the World! The tall thought-woven sails, that flap unfurled Above the tide of hours, trouble the air, And God's bell buoyed to be the water's care.
There's nothing but our own red blood Can make a right RoseTree.
Webster's New World Dictionary of Quotations Copyright © 2010 by Chambers Harrap Publishers Ltd. All rights reserved. Published by Wiley, Hoboken, NJ. Used by arrangement with John Wiley & Sons, Inc.
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