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There came a time when the risk to remain tight in the bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.- Anais Nin
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There grew pied wind-flowers and violets, Daisies, those pearled Arcturi of the earth, The constellated flower that never sets.
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There is a material enough in a single flower for the ornament of a score of cathedrals.
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There is not the least flower but seems to hold up its head and to look pleasantly, in the secret sense of the goodness of its Heavenly Maker.
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There is that in the glance of a flower which may at times control the greatest of creation”s braggart lords.
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There is to me a daintiness about early flowers that touches me like poetry. They blow out with such a simple loveliness among the common herbs of pastures, and breathe their lives so unobtrusively, like hearts whose beatings are too gentle for the world.
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There is to the poetical sense a ravishing prophecy and winsome intimation in flowers that now and then, from the influence of mood of circumstance, reasserts itself like the reminiscence of childhood, or the spell of love.
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There spring the wild-flowers–fair as can be.
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These children of the meadows born Of sunshine and of showers!
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These flow’rs are like the pleasures of the world; This bloody man, the care on’t.
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These stars of earth, these golden flowers.
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They know the time to go! The fairy clocks strike their inaudible hour In field and woodland, and each punctual flower Bows at the signal an obedient head And hastens to bed.
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They sometimes met on country roads when there were flowers or snow
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They speak of hope to the fainting heart, With a voice of promise they come and part, They sleep in dust through the wintry hours, They break forth in glory–bring flowers, bright flowers!
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Thick on the woodland floor Gay company shall be, Primrose and Hyacinth And frail Anemone, Perennial Strawberry-bloom, Woodsorrel’s pencilled veil, Dishevel’d Willow-weed And Orchis purple and pale.
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Through the laburnum’s dropping gold Rose the light shaft of orient mould, And Europe’s violets, faintly sweet, Purpled the moss-beds at its feet.
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Throughout the year so many draw pleasure from the beauty of the cathedral [Hereford] being decorated with flowers.
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‘Tis but a little faded flower, But oh, how fondly dear! ‘Twill bring me back one golden hour, Through many a weary year.
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Tis my faith that every flower Enjoys the air it breathes!- William Wordsworth
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To analyze the charms of flowers is like dissecting music; it is one of those things which it is far better to enjoy than to attempt to understand.
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