Flowers, sometimes known as blooms or blossoms, are the reproductive structures found in flowering plants (plants of the division Magnoliophyta, also called angiosperms). The biological function of a flower is to mediate the union of male sperm with female ovum in order to produce seeds. The process begins with pollination, is followed by fertilization, leading to the formation and dispersal of the seeds. For the higher plants, seeds are the next generation, and serve as the primary means by which individuals of a species are dispersed across the landscape. The grouping of flowers on a plant is called the inflorescence.
In addition to serving as the reproductive organs of flowering plants, flowers have long been admired and used by humans, mainly to beautify their environment but also as a source of food.
Quotes
Generally
The snowdrop and primrose our woodlands adorn, And violets bathe in the wet o' the morn. ~ Robert BurnsDear common flower, that grow'st beside the way, Fringing the dusty road with harmless gold, First pledge of blithesome May, Which children pluck, and, full of pride uphold. ~ James Russell LowellThe mysteries that cups of flowers infold And'all the gorgeous sights which fairies do behold. ~ William WordsworthWithout our fully realizing it, flowers would become for us an expression in form of that which is most high, most sacred, and ultimately formless within ourselves. ~ Eckhart TolleColor is the ultimate in art. It is still and will always remain a mystery to us, we can only apprehend it intuitively in flowers. ~ Philipp Otto Runge
Flowers are the sweetest things that God ever made, and forgot to put a soul into.
How cruel of you. What part of what you see here is carefree? If only you could understand the sadness of the ones who grow the delicate flowers of buffoonery, protecting them from but the slightest gust of wind and always on the verge of despair!
There grew a little flower 'Neath a great oak tree: When the tempest 'gan to lower Little heeded she: No need had she to cower, For she dreaded not its power – She was happy in the bower Of her great oak tree! Of her great oak tree! Sing hey, Lackaday! Sing hey, Lackaday! Let the tears fall free For the pretty little flower And the great oak tree!
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen And waste its sweetness on the desert air.
Thomas Gray, Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard (1751).
Gather ye Rose-buds while ye may, Old Time is still a-flying; And this same flower that smiles to-day, To-morrow will be dying.
Robert Herrick, To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time (1648).
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.
Yellow japanned buttercups and star-disked dandelions, just as we see them lying in the grass, like sparks that have leaped from the kindling sun of summer.
Above his head Four lily stalks did their white honours wed To make a coronal; and round him grew All tendrils green, of every bloom and hue, Together intertwined and trammell'd fresh; The vine of glossy sprout; the ivy mesh, Shading its Ethiop berries.
Young playmates of the rose and daffodil, Be careful ere ye enter in, to fill Your baskets high With fennel green, and balm, and golden pines Savory latter-mint, and columbines.
I sometimes think that never blows so red The Rose as where some buried Caesar bled; That every Hyacinth the Garden wears Dropt in her Lap from some once lovely Head.
It is so wrong to think of the beauty of flowers only when they are at their height of blooming; bud and half developed flower, fading blossom and seed pod are as lovely, and often more interesting.
Clare Leighton, Four Hedges: A Gardener’s Chronicle, Victor Gollancz, 1935. Also quoted in Murphy, Edward F., ‘’The Crown Treasury of Relevant Quotations’’ , New York: Crown Publishers 1978 (pg. 290).
Dear common flower, that grow'st beside the way, Fringing the dusty road with harmless gold, First pledge of blithesome May, Which children pluck, and, full of pride uphold.
"Aye," said Math, "let us seek, thou and I, by our magic and enchantment to conjure a wife for him out of flowers"...And then they took the flowers of the oak, and the flowers of the broom, and the flowers of the meadowsweet, and from those they called forth the very fairest and best endowed maiden that mortal ever saw, and baptized her with the baptism they used at that time, and named her Blodeuedd.
Anemones and seas of gold, And new-blown lilies of the river, And those sweet flow'rets that unfold Their buds on Camadera's quiver.
Thomas Moore, Lalla Rookh (1817), Light of the Harem.
There is that in the glance of a flower which may at times control the greatest of creation's braggart lords.
John Muir, A Thousand-Mile Walk to the Gulf (1916).
Where flowers degenerate man cannot live.
Napoleon, as quoted in The table talk and opinions of Napoleon Buonaparte (1868), p. 148.
Say it with flowers.
Patrick O'Keefe (1872-1934); slogan coined in 1917, for the Society of American Florists, as quoted in The Oxford Dictionary of Quotations (1999), p. 8.
I know that as night and shadows are good for flowers, and moonlight and dews are better than a continual sun, so is Christ's absence of special use, and that it hath some nourishing virtue in it, and giveth sap to humility, and putteth an edge on hunger, and furnisheth a fair field for faith to put forth itself.
Samuel Rutherford Quotes reported in Josiah Hotchkiss Gilbert, Dictionary of Burning Words of Brilliant Writers (1895). p. 277.
Color is the ultimate in art. It is still and will always remain a mystery to us, we can only apprehend it intuitively in flowers.
Philipp Otto Runge, in a letter (February 1802) quoted in L. Eitner Neoclassicism and Romanticism, 1750-1850: Enlightenment (1970), p. 150.
Thou shalt not lack The flower that's like thy face, pale primrose, nor The azur'd harebell, like thy veins.
I know a bank, where the wild thyme blows Where ox-lips, and the nodding violet grows; Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine, With sweet musk-roses, and with eglantine.
William Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night's Dream (c. 1595-96), Act II, scene 1, line 251. Changed by Stervens to "whereon the wild thyme blows," and "luscious woodbine" to "lush woodbine".
To strew thy green with flowers; the yellows, blues, The purple violets, and marigolds.
Age cannot Love destroy, But perfidy can blast the flower, Even when in most unwary hour It blooms in Fancy's bower. Age cannot Love destroy, But perfidy can rend the shrine In which its vermeil splendours shine.
Percy Bysshe Shelley, Untitled (1810); titled "Love's Rose" by William Michael Rossetti in Complete Poetical Works of Percy Bysshe Shelley (1870).
The awful shadow of some unseen Power Floats though unseen among us; visiting This various world with as inconstant wing As summer winds that creep from flower to flower; Like moonbeams that behind some piny mountain shower, It visits with inconstant glance Each human heart and countenance; Like hues and harmonies of evening, Like clouds in starlight widely spread, Like memory of music fled, Like aught that for its grace may be Dear, and yet dearer for its mystery.
There grew pied wind-flowers and violets, Daisies, those pearl'd Arcturi of the earth, The constellated flower that never sets; Faint oxlips; tender bluebells at whose birth The sod scarce heaved; and that tall flower that wets Its mother's face with heaven-collected tears, When the low wind, its playmate's voice, it hears.
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 many a lady and many a paramour. Gather therefore the rose whilst yet in prime, For soon comes age that will her pride deflower. Gather the rose of love whilst yet in time, Whilst loving thou mayst loved be with equal crime.
Edmund Spenser, The Faerie Queene (1589-96), Book II, Canto XII, Stanza 75.
Roses red and violets blew, And all the sweetest flowres that in the forrest grew.
Edmund Spenser, The Faerie Queene (1589-96), Book HI, Canto VI, Stanza 6.
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."
The slender acacia would not shake One long milk-bloom on the tree; The white lake-blossom fell into the lake As the pimpernel dozed on the lea; But the rose was awake all night for your sake, Knowing your promise to me; The lilies and roses were all awake, They sighed for the dawn and thee.
Alfred Tennyson, Maud; A Monodrama (1855), Part XXII, Stanza 8.
The daisy, primrose, violet darkly blue; And polyanthus of unnumbered dyes.
James Thomson, The Seasons, Spring (1728), line 529.
One morning just after sunrise: The first flower ever to appear on the planet opens up to receive the rays of the sun. Prior to this momentous event that heralds an evolutionarytransformation in the life of plants, the planet had already been covered in vegetation for millions of years... Much later, those delicate and fragrant beings we call flowers would come to play an essential part in the evolution of consciousness of another species. Humans would increasingly be drawn to and fascinated by them. As the consciousness of human beings developed, flowers were most likely the first thing they came to value that had no utilitarian purpose for them, that is to say, was not linked in some way to survival. They provided inspiration to countless artists, poets, and mystics... Jesus tells us to contemplate the flowers and learn from then how to live. The Buddha is said to have given a “silent sermon” once during which he held up a flower and gazed at it. After a while, one of those present, a monk called Mahakasyapa, began to smile... Seeing beauty in a flower could awaken humans, however briefly, to the beauty that is an essential part of their own innermost being, their true nature.
The first recognition of beauty was one of the most significant events in the evolution of human consciousness. The feelings of joy and love are intrinsically connected to that recognition. Without our fully realizing it, flowers would become for us an expression in form of that which is most high, most sacred, and ultimately formless within ourselves. Flowers... would become like messengers from another realm, like a bridge between the world of physical forms and the formless. They not only had a scent that was delicate and pleasing to humans, but also brought a fragrance from the realm of spirit. Using the word “enlightenment” in a wider sense than the conventionally accepted one, we could look upon flowers as the enlightenment of plants.
Eckhart Tolle, in A New Earth: Awakening to Your Life’s Purpose (2005)
Now when the primrose makes a splendid show, And lilies face the March-winds in full blow, And humbler growths as moved with one desire Put on, to welcome spring, their best attire, Poor Robin is yet flowerless; but how gay With his red stalks upon this sunny day!
Sweet letters of the angel tongue, I've loved ye long and well, And never have failed in your fragrance sweet To find some secret spell, , A charm that has bound me with witching power, For mine is the old belief, That midst your sweets and midst your bloom, There's a soul in every leaf!
Take the flower from my breast, I pray thee, Take the flower, too, from out my tresses: And then go hence; for, see, the night is fair, The stars rejoice to watch thee on thy way.
Third Poem in Bard of the Dimbovitza; Rumanian Folksongs. Collected by Helens Vacaresco. English by Carmen Sylva and Alma Strettell. (Quoted by Galsworthy, on fly leaf of The Dark Flower).
As for marigolds, poppies, hollyhocks, and valorous sunflowers, we shall never have a garden without them, both for their own sake, and for the sake of old-fashioned folks, who used to love them.
Flowers have an expression of countenance as much as men or animals. Some seem to smile; some have a sad expression; some are pensive and diffident; others again are plain, honest and upright, like, the broad-faced sunflower and the hollyhock.
Flowers are Love's truest language; they betray, Like the divining rods of Magi old, Where precious wealth lies buried, not of gold, But love, strong love, that never can decay!
Park Benjamin, Sonnet, Flowers, Love's Truest Language.
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.
Brazen helm of daffodillies, With a glitter toward the light. Purple violets for the mouth, Breathing perfumes west and south; And a sword of flashing lilies, Holden ready for the fight.
Ah, ah, Qytherea! Adonis is dead. She wept tear after tear, with the blood which was shed, , And both turned into flowers for the earth's Her tears, to the wind-flower, his blood, to the rose.
Yet here's eglantine, Here's ivy!, take them as I used to do Thy flowers, and keep them where they shall not pine. Instruct thine eyes to keep their colours true, And tell thy soul their roots are left in mine.
The windflower and the violet, they perished long ago, And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow; But on the hills the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood, And the yellow sunflower by the brook, in autumn beauty stood, Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls the plague on men, And the brightness of their smile was gone, from upland glade and glen.
Where fall the tears of love the rose appears, And where the ground is bright with friendship's tears, Forget-me-not, and violets, heavenly blue, Spring glittering with the cheerful drops like dew.
Mourn, little harebells, o'er the lea; Ye stately foxgloves fair to see! Ye woodbines, hanging bonnilie In scented bowers! Ye roses on your thorny tree The first o' flow'rs.
Rose, what is become of thy delicate hue? And where is the violet's beautiful blue? Does aught of its sweetness the blossom beguile? That meadow, those daisies, why do they not smile?
Ye field flowers! the gardens eclipse you 'tis true: Yet wildings of nature, I dote upon you, For ye waft me to summers of old, When the earth teem'd around me with fairy delight, And when daisies and buttercups gladden 'd my sight, Like treasures of silver and gold.
I know not which I love the most, Nor which the comeliest shows, The timid, bashful violet Or the royal-hearted rose: The pansy in her purple dress, The pink with cheek of red, Or the faint, fair heliotrope, who hangs, Like a bashful maid her head.
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 hastes to bed.
The rose is fragrant, but it fades in time: The violet sweet, but quickly past the prime* White lilies hang their heads, and soon decay, And white snow in minutes melts away.
John Dryden, translation, from Theocritus. The Despairing Lover, line 57.
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!
Faire pledges of a fruitful tree Why do yee fall so fast? Your date is not so past But you may stay yet here awhile To blush and gently smile And go at last.
What are the flowers of Scotland, All others that excel? The lovely flowers of Scotland, All others that excel! The thistle's purple bonnet, And bonny heather bell, Oh, they're the flowers of Scotland. All others that excel!
I remember, I remember The roses, red and white, The violets, and the lily-cups, Those flowers made of light! The lilacs, where the robin built, And where my brother set The laburnum on his birthday, , The tree is living yet.
Growing one's own choice words and fancies In orange tubs, and beds of pansies; One's sighs and passionate declarations, In odorous rhetoric of carnations.
And O and O, The daisies blow, And the primroses are waken'd; And the violets white Sit in silver plight, And the green bud's as long as the spike end.
The loveliest flowers the closest cling to earth, And they first feel the sun: so violets blue; So the soft star-like primrose, drenched in dew , The happiest of Spring's happy, fragrant birth.
Spake full well, in language quaint and olden, One who dwelleth by the castled Rhine, When he called the flowers, so blue and golden, Stars, that in the earth's firmament do shine.
Gorgeous flowerets in the sunlight shining, Blossoms flaunting in the eye of day, Tremulous leaves, with soft and silver lining, Buds that open only to decay.
The foxglove, with its stately bells Of purple, shall adorn thy dells; The wallflower, on each rifted rock, From liberal blossoms shall breathe down, (Gold blossoms frecked with iron-brown,) Its fragrance; while the hollyhock, The pink, and the carnation vie With lupin and with lavender, To decorate the fading year; And larkspurs, many-hued, shall drive Gloom from the groves, where red leaves lie, And Nature seems but half alive.
Yet, no, not words, for they But half can tell love's feeling; Sweet flowers alone can say What passion fears revealing: A once bright rose's wither'd leaf, A tow'ring lily broken, , Oh, these may paint a grief No words could e'er have spoken.
The Wreath's of brightest myrtle wove With brilliant tears of bliss among it, And many a rose leaf cull'd by Love To heal his lips when bees have stung it.
He bore a simple wild-flower wreath: Narcissus, and the sweet brier rose; Vervain, and flexile thyme, that breathe Rich fragrance; modest heath, that glows With purple bells; the amaranth bright, That no decay, nor fading knows, Like true love's holiest, rarest light; And every purest flower, that blows In that sweet time, which Love most blesses, When spring on summer's confines presses.
In Eastern lands they talk in flowers, And they tell in a garland their loves and cares; Each blossom that blooms in their garden bowers, On its leaves a mystic language Dears.
Here eglantine embalm'd the air, Hawthorne and hazel mingled there; The primrose pale, and violet flower, Found in each cliff a narrow bower; Fox-glove and nightshade, side by side, Emblems of punishment and pride, Group'd their dark hues with every stain The weather-beaten crags retain.
Walter Scott, The Lady of the Lake, Canto I, Stanza 12.
There grew pied wind-flowers and violets, Daisies, those pearled Arcturi of the earth, The constellated flower that never sets.
Day stars! that ope your frownless eyes to twinkle From rainbow galaxies of earth's creation, And dew-drops on her lonely altars sprinkle As a libation.
Sweet is the rose, but grows upon a brere; Sweet is the juniper, but sharp his bough; Sweet is the eglantine, but sticketh nere; Sweet is the firbloome, but its braunches rough; Sweet is the cypress, but its rynd is tough; Sweet is the nut, but bitter is his pill; Sweet is the broome-flowre, but yet sowre enough; And sweet is moly, but his root is ill.
Primrose-eyes each morning ope In their cool, deep beds of grass; Violets make the air that pass Tell-tales of their fragrant slope.
Bayard Taylor, Home and Travel, the Cloven Pine, line 57.
The aquilegia sprinkled on the rocks A scarlet rain; the yellow violet Sat in the chariot of its leaves; the phlox Held spikes of purple flame in meadows wet, And all the streams with vernal-scented reed Were fringed, and streaky bells of miskodeed.
Bayard Taylor, Home and Travel, Mon-Da-Min, Stanza 17.
With roses musky-breathed, And drooping daffodilly, And silver-leaved lily. And ivy darkly-wreathed, I wove a crown before her, For her I love so dearly.
Here are cool mosses deep, And thro' the moss the ivies creep, And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep, And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep.
Earth, 114 million years ago, one morning just after sunrise: The first flower ever to appear on the planet opens up to receive the rays of the sun. Prior to this momentous event that heralds an evolutionary transformation in the life of plants, the planet had already been covered in vegetation for millions of years. The first flower probably did not survive for long, and flowers must have remained rare and isolated phenomena, since conditions were most likely not yet favorable for a widespread flowering to occur. One day, however, a critical threshold was reached, and suddenly there would have been an explosion of color and scent all over the planet – if a perceiving consciousness had been there to witness it. Much later, those delicate and fragrant beings we call flowers would come to play an essential part in the evolution of consciousness of another species. Humans would increasingly be drawn to and fascinated by them.
As the consciousness of human beings developed, flowers were most likely the first thing they came to value that had no utilitarian purpose for them, that is to say, was not linked in some way to survival. They provided inspiration to countless artists, poets, and mystics. Jesus tells us to contemplate the flowers and learn from then how to live. The Buddha is said to have given a “silent sermon” once during which he held up a flower and gazed at it. After a while, one of those present, a monk called Mahakasyapa, began to smile. He is said to have been the only one who had understood the sermon. According to legend, that smile (that is to say, realization) was handed down by twentyeight successive masters and much later became the origin of Zen.
Eckhart Tolle, A New Earth: Awakening to Your Life’s Purpose (2005)
Seeing beauty in a flower could awaken humans, however briefly, to the beauty that is an essential part of their own innermost being, their true nature. The first recognition of beauty was one of the most significant events in the evolution of human consciousness. The feelings of joy and love are intrinsically connected to that recognition. Without our fully realizing it, flowers would become for us an expression in form of that which is most high, most sacred, and ultimately formless within ourselves. Flowers... would become like messengers from another realm, like a bridge between the world of physical forms and the formless. They not only had a scent that was delicate and pleasing to humans, but also brought a fragrance from the realm of spirit. Using the word “enlightenment” in a wider sense than the conventionally accepted one, we could look upon flowers as the enlightenment of plants... they are, of course, temporary manifestations of the underlying one Life, one Consciousness. Their special significance and the reason why humans feel such fascination for and affinity with them can be attributed to their ethereal quality.
Along the river's summer walk, The withered tufts of asters nod; And trembles on its arid stalk The hoar plume of the golden-rod. And on a ground of sombre fir, And azure-studded juniper, The silver birch its buds of purple shows, And scarlet berries tell where bloomed the sweet wild-rose!
But when they had unloosed the linen band, Which swathed the Egyptian's body, lo! was found, Closed in the wasted hollow of her hand, A little seed, which, sown in English ground, Did wondrous snow of starry blossoms bear, And spread rich odours through our springtide air.
There bloomed the strawberry of the wilderness; The trembling eyebright showed her sapphire blue, The thyme her purple, like the blush of Even; And if the breath of some to no caress Invited, forth they peeped so fair to view, All kinds alike seemed favourites of Heaven.
Thy subtle charm is strangely given, My fancy will not let thee be, , Then poise not thus 'twixt earth and heaven, O white anemone!Anemone, so well Named of the wind, to which thou art all free.
Within the woods, Whose young and half transparent leaves scarce cast A shade, gray circles of anemones Danced on their stalks.
William Cullen Bryant, The Old Man's Counsel (1840), published in The United States Magazine and Democratic Review (1840), p. 111.
From the soft wing of vernal breezes shed, Anemones, auritulas, enriched With shining meal o'er all their velvet leaves.
James Thomson, The Seasons, Spring (1728), line 533.
Hoyt's New Cyclopedia Of Practical Quotations (1922)
Thou lookest up with meek, confiding eye Upon the clouded smile of April's face, Unharmed though Winter stands uncertain by, Eyeing with jealous glance each opening grace.
White as the blossoms which the almond tree, Above its bald and leafless branches bears.
Like to an almond tree ymounted hye On top of greene Selinis all alone, With blossoms brave bedecked daintily; Whose tender locks do tremble every one, At everie little breath, that under heaven is blowne.
Edmund Spenser, The Faerie Queene (1589-96), Book I, Canto VII, Stanza 32.
Hoyt's New Cyclopedia Of Practical Quotations (1922)
Nosegays! leave them for the waking, Throw them earthward where they grew Dim are such, beside the breaking Amaranths he looks unto. Folded eyes see brighter colors than the open ever do.
Immortal amaranth, a flower which once In Paradise, fast by the Tree of Life, Began to bloom, but soon for Man's offence, To heav'n remov'd, where first it grew, there grows, And flow'rs aloft shading the fount of life.
I care not for these ladies, That must be wooed and prayed; Give me kind Amaryllis, The wanton country maid. Nature art disdaineth; Her beauty is her own.
Thomas Campion, I Care Not for These Ladies (1601), reported in Arthur Henry Bullen, More lyrics from the song-books of the Elizabethan Age (1888), p. 48.
Alas! what boots it with incessant care To tend the homely slighted shepherd's trade, And strictly meditate the thankless Muse? Were it not better done as others use, To sport with Amaryllis in the shade, Or with the tangles of Neaera's hair?
Underneath an apple-tree Sat a maiden and her lover; And the thoughts within her he Yearned, in silence, to discover. Round them danced the sunbeams bright, Green the grass-lawn stretched before them While the apple blossoms white Hung in rich profusion o'er them.
Will Carleton, Apple Blossoms.
The apple blossoms' shower of pearl, Though blent with rosier hue, As beautiful as woman's blush, As evanescent too.
L. E. Landon, Apple Blossoms.
All day in the green, sunny orchard, When May was a marvel of bloom, I followed the busy bee-lovers Down paths that were sweet with perfume.
The ash her purple drops forgivingly And sadly, breaking not the general hush; The maple swamps glow like a sunset sea, Each leaf a ripple with its separate flush; All round the wood's edge creeps the skirting blaze, Of bushes low, as when, on cloudy days, Ere the rain falls, the cautious farmer burns his brush.
James Russell Lowell, An Indian-Summer Reverie, Stanza 11, reported in Hoyt's New Cyclopedia Of Practical Quotations (1922), p. 45.
The aster greets us as we pass With her faint smile.
Chide me not, laborious band! For the idle flowers I brought; Every aster in my hand Goes home loaded with a thought.
Ralph Waldo Emerson, The Apology, reported in Hoyt's New Cyclopedia Of Practical Quotations (1922), p. 45.
The Autumn wood the aster knows, The empty nest, the wind that grieves, The sunlight breaking thro' the shade, The squirrel chattering overhead, The timid rabbits lighter tread Among the rustling leaves.
Dora Read Goodale, Asters, reported in Hoyt's New Cyclopedia Of Practical Quotations (1922), p. 45.
The aster greets us as we pass With her faint smile.
Sarah Helen Whitman, A Day of the Indian Summer, line 35, reported in Hoyt's New Cyclopedia Of Practical Quotations (1922), p. 45.
Whence is yonder flower so strangely bright? Would the sunset's last reflected shine Flame so red from that dead flush of light? Dark with passion is its lifted line, Hot, alive, amid the falling night.
Dora Read Goodale, Cardinal Flower, reported in Hoyt's New Cyclopedia Of Practical Quotations (1922), p. 89.
Eyes of some men travel far For the finding of a star; Up and down the heavens they go, Men that keep a mighty rout! I'm as great as they, I trow, Since the day I found thee out, Little Flower!—I'll make a stir, Like a sage astronomer.
William Wordsworth, To the Small Celandine; reported in Hoyt's New Cyclopedia Of Practical Quotations (1922), p. 91.
Long as there's a sun that sets, Primroses will have their glory; Long as there are violets, They will have a place in story: There's a flower that shall be mine, 'Tis the little Celandine.
William Wordsworth, To the Small Celandine; reported in Hoyt's New Cyclopedia Of Practical Quotations (1922), p. 91-92.
Pleasures newly found are sweet When they lie about our feet: February last, my heart First at sight of thee was glad; All unheard of as thou art, Thou must needs, I think have had, Celandine! and long ago, Praise of which I nothing know.
William Wordsworth, To the Same Flower; reported in Hoyt's New Cyclopedia Of Practical Quotations (1922), p. 92.
Chrysanthemums from gilded argosy Unload their gaudy scentless merchandise.
Fair gift of Friendship! and her ever bright And faultless image! welcome now them art, In thy pure loveliness—thy robes of white, Speaking a moral to the feeling heart; Unscattered by heats—by wintry blasts unmoved— Thy strength thus tested—and thy charms improved.
Anna Peyre Dinnies, To a White Chrysanthemum, reported in Hoyt's New Cyclopedia Of Practical Quotations (1922), p. 117.
Chrysanthemums from gilded argosy Unload their gaudy scentless merchandise.
Oscar Wilde, Humanitad, Stanza 11, reported in Hoyt's New Cyclopedia Of Practical Quotations (1922), p. 117.
Where the wind-rows are spread for the butterfly's bed, And the clover-bloom falleth around.
Eliza Cook, Journal, Volume VII, Stanza 2, Song of the Haymakers.
Crimson clover I discover By the garden gate, And the bees about her hover, But the robins wait. Sing, robins, sing, Sing a roundelay,— 'Tis the latest flower of Spring Coming with the May!
O columbine, open your folded wrapper, Where two twin turtle-doves dwell! O cuckoopint, toll me the purple clapper That hangs in your clear green bell!
Skirting the rocks at the forest edge With a running flame from ledge to ledge, Or swaying deeper in shadowy glooms, A smoldering fire in her dusky blooms; Bronzed and molded by wind and sun, Maddening, gladdening every one With a gypsy beauty full and fine,— A health to the crimson columbine!
O columbine, open your folded wrapper, Where two twin turtle-doves dwell! O cuckoopint, toll me the purple clapper That hangs in your clear green bell!
Look at this vigorous plant that lifts its head from the meadow, See how its leaves are turned to the north, as true as the magnet; This is the compass-flower, that the finger of God has planted Here in the houseless wild, to direct the traveller's journey. Over the sea-like, pathless, limitless waste of the desert, Such in the soul of man is faith.
Welcome, wild harbinger of spring! To this small nook of earth; Feeling and fancy fondly cling Round thoughts which owe their birth To thee, and to the humble spot Where chance has fixed thy lowly lot.
Bernard Barton, To a Crocus, reported in Hoyt's New Cyclopedia Of Practical Quotations (1922), p. 152.
Hail to the King of Bethlehem, Who weareth in his diadem The yellow crocus for the gem Of his authority!
Upon a showery night and still, Without a sound of warning, A trooper band surprised the hill, And held it in the morning. We were not waked by bugle notes, No cheer our dreams invaded, And yet at dawn, their yellow coats On the green slopes paraded.
Dear common flower, that grow'st beside the way, Fringing the dusty road with harmless gold, First pledge of blithesome May, Which children pluck, and, full of pride, uphold, High-hearted buccaneers, o'erjoyed that they An Eldorado in the grass have found, Which not the rich earth's ample round May match in wealth, thou art more dear to me Than all the prouder summer-blooms may be.
Beside the brook and on the umbered meadow, Where yellow fern-tufts fleck the faded ground, With folded lids beneath their palmy shadow The gentian nods in dewy slumbers bound.
Mountain gorses, ever-golden. Cankered not the whole year long! Do ye teach us to be strong, Howsoever pricked and holden Like your thorny blooms and so Trodden on by rain and snow, Up the hillside of this life, as bleak as where ye grow?
Mountain gorses, ever-golden. Cankered not the whole year long! Do ye teach us to be strong, Howsoever pricked and holden Like your thorny blooms and so Trodden on by rain and snow, Up the hillside of this life, as bleak as where ye grow?
High in the clefts of the rock 'mid the cedars Hangeth the harebell the waterfall nigh; Blue are its petals, deep-blue tinged with purple, Mystical tintings that mirror the sky.
Hope is like a harebell, trembling from its birth, Love is like a rose, the joy of all the earth, Faith is like a lily, lifted high and white, Love is like a lovely rose, the world's delight. Harebells and sweet lilies show a thornless growth, But the rose with all its thorns excels them both.
Christina Rossetti, Hope is like a Harebell; reported in Bartlett's Familiar Quotations, 10th ed. (1919).
With fairest flowers, Whilst summer lasts, and I live here, Fidele, I'll sweeten thy sad grave; thou shall not lack The flower that's like thy face, pale primrose, nor The azur'd harebell, like thy veins.
I love the fair lilies and roses so gay, They are rich in their pride and their splendor; But still more do I love to wander away To the meadow so sweet, Where down at my feet, The harebell blooms modest and tender.
With drooping bells of clearest blue Thou didst attract my childish view, Almost resembling The azure butterflies that flew Where on the heath thy blossoms grew So lightly trembling.
Simplest of blossoms! To mine eye Thou bring'st the summer's painted sky; The May-thorn greening in the nook; The minnows sporting in the brook; The bleat of flocks; the breath of flowers; The song of birds amid the bowers; The crystal of the azure seas; The music of the southern breeze; And, over all, the blessed sun, Telling of halcyon days begun.
Moir, The Harebell.
High in the clefts of the rock 'mid the cedars Hangeth the harebell the waterfall nigh; Blue are its petals, deep-blue tinged with purple, Mystical tintings that mirror the sky.
All the woodland path is broken By warm tints along the way, And the low and sunny slope Is alive with sudden hope When there comes the silent token Of an April day,— Blue hepatica!
Dora Read Goodale, Hepatica, reported in Hoyt's New Cyclopedia Of Practical Quotations (1922), p. 365.
Here hyacinths of heavenly blue Shook their rich tresses to the morn.If of thy mortal goods thou art bereft, And from thy slender store two loaves alone to thee are left, Sell one, and with the dole Buy hyacinths to feed thy soul.
It is the Hyacinth, whose sweet bells stooping, Bend with the odours heavy in their cells; Amid the shadows of their fragrant drooping, Memory, that is itself a shadow, dwells.
If of thy mortal goods thou art bereft, And from thy slender store two loaves alone to thee are left, Sell one, and with the dole Buy hyacinths to feed thy soul.
Mosleh Eddin Saadi, Gulistan (Garden of Roses). Compare: "If thou of fortune be bereft, / And thou dost find but two loaves left / To thee --- sell one and with the dole / Buy hyacinths to feed thy soul"; James Terry White, Not by Bread Alone, Stanza 1, published in The Century Magazine (August 1907), p. 519.
And the hyacinth purple, and white, and blue, Which flung from its bells a sweet peal anew Of music so delicate, soft, and intense, It was felt like an odour within the sense.
I hear, I hear The twang of harps, the leap Of fairy feet and know the revel's ripe, While like a coral stripe The lizard cool doth creep, Monster, but monarch there, up the pale Indian Pipe.
Death in the wood,— In the death-pale lips apart; Death in a whiteness that curdled the blood, Now black to the very heart: The wonder by her was formed Who stands supreme in power; To show that life by the spirit comes She gave us a soulless flower!
And nearer to the river's trembling edge There grew broad flag-flowers, purple, prankt with white; And starry river buds among the sedge; And floating water-lilies, broad and bright.
Percy Bysshe Shelley, The Question, reported in Hoyt's New Cyclopedia Of Practical Quotations (1922), p. 275.
Jas in the Arab language is despair, And Min the darkest meaning of a lie. Thus cried the Jessamine among the flowers, How justly doth a lie Draw on its head despair! Among the fragrant spirits of the bowers The boldest and the strongest still was I. Although so fair, Therefore from Heaven A stronger perfume unto me was given Than any blossom of the summer hours.
Among the flowers no perfume is like mine; That which is best in me comes from within. So those in this world who would rise and shine Should seek internal excellence to win. And though 'tis true that falsehood and despair Meet in my name, yet bear it still in mind That where they meet they perish. All is fair When they are gone and nought remains behind.
And the jasmine flower in her fair young breast, (O the faint, sweet smell of that jasmine flower!) And the one bird singing alone to his nest. And the one star over the tower.
Owen Meredith (Lord Lytton), Aux Italiens, Stanza 13.
It smelt so faint, and it smelt so sweet, It made me creep and it made me cold. Like the scent that steals from the crumbling sheet Where a mummy is half unroll'd.
…The thornless lilacs summon up no dread, Demand no witness. Flower, branch, and leaf Are only what they are. They have no words For us to ponder, though we sometimes feign To speak for them, as augury of birds Construes an omen of impending pain.
Go down to Kew in lilac-time, in lilac-time, in lilac-time; Go down to Kew in lilac-time (it isn't far from London). And you shall wander hand in hand with love in summer's wonderland; Go down to Kew in lilac-time (it isn't far from London).
When lilacs last in the door-yard bloom'd, And the great star early droop'd in the western sky in the night, I mourn'd—and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring.
Walt Whitman, When Lilacs Last in the Door-Yard Bloom'd, I, Leaves of Grass.
With every leaf a miracle … and from this bush in the door-yard, With delicate-colour'd blossoms, and heart-shaped leaves of rich green A sprig, with its flower, I break.
Walt Whitman, When Lilacs Last in the Door-Yard Bloom'd, III, Leaves of Grass.
This flower that first appeared as summer's guest Preserves her beauty 'mid autumnal leaves And to her mournful habits fondly cleaves.
Love lies bleeding in the bed whereover Roses lean with smiling mouths or pleading: Earth lies laughing where the sun's dart clove her: Love lies bleeding.
Charles Algernon Swinburne, Love Lies Bleeding, reported in Hoyt's New Cyclopedia Of Practical Quotations (1922), p. 484.
This flower that first appeared as summer's guest Preserves her beauty 'mid autumnal leaves And to her mournful habits fondly cleaves.
William Wordsworth, Love Lies Bleeding, reported in Hoyt's New Cyclopedia Of Practical Quotations (1922), p. 484.
Fragrant o'er all the western groves The tall magnolia towers unshaded.
Maria Gowen Brooks, stanzas written by Idomen on seeing Pharamond in Idomen; or, The Vale of Yumuri (New York: Samuel Colman, 1843), "The Confessions", p. 182.
Majestic flower! How purely beautiful Thou art, as rising from thy bower of green, Those dark and glossy leaves so thick and full, Thou standest like a high-born forest queen Among thy maidens clustering round so fair;— I love to watch thy sculptured form unfolding, And look into thy depths, to image there A fairy cavern; and while thus beholding, And while the breeze floats o'er thee, matchless flower, I breathe the perfume, delicate and strong, That comes like incense from thy petal-bower, My fancy roams those southern woods along, Beneath that glorious tree, where deep among The unsunned leaves thy large white flower-cups hung!
Christopher Pearse Cranch, Sonnet VII: "To the Magnolia Grandiflora" (1836), in Poems (Philadelphia: Carey and Hart, 1844), p. 102.
I wake to "magnolias sweet and fresh", Lines of poetry on my breath, You were here but you have stolen away. My inspiration is an evening star, So come to me wherever you are, I will wait for you tonight alone in the dark…
The marigold abroad her leaves doth spread, Because the sun's and her power is the same.Open afresh your round of starry folds, Ye ardent marigolds! Dry up the moisture from your golden lips.
And winking Mary-buds begin To ope their golden eyes.
Francis Quarles, The School of the Heart, Ode XXX, Stanza 5.
Nor shall the marigold unmentioned die, Which Acis once found out in Sicily; She Phoebus loves, and from him draws his hue, And ever keeps his golden beams in view.
René Rapin, in his Latin Poem on Gardens, translated by Gardiner in 1706.
When with a serious musing I behold The graceful and obsequious marigold, How duly every morning she displays Her open breast, when Titan spreads his rays.
A little marsh-plant, yellow green, And prick'd at lip with tender red, Tread close, and either way you tread, Some faint black water jets between Lest you should bruise the curious head.
With careless joy we thread the woodland ways And reach her broad domain. Thro' sense of strength and beauty, free as air. We feel our savage kin, And thus alone with conscious meaning wear The Indian's moccasin!
Elaine Goodale, Moccasin Flower, reported in Hoyt's New Cyclopedia Of Practical Quotations (1922), p. 519.
Not to the sunny hours That waken other flowers, Dost thou fling forth the odour of thy sighing But in the time of gloom, Is yielded thy perfume, Like Love, that lives when all beside is dying.
Wondrous interlacement! Holding fast to threads by green and silky rings, With the dawn it spreads its white and purple wings; Generous in its bloom, and sheltering while it clings, Sturdy morning-glory.
Helen Hunt Jackson, Morning-Glory; reported in Hoyt's New Cyclopedia Of Practical Quotations (1922), p. 530.
The morning-glory's blossoming Will soon be coming round We see their rows of heart-shaped leaves Upspringing from the ground.
Maria White Lowell, Morning-Glory; reported in Hoyt's New Cyclopedia Of Practical Quotations (1922), p. 530.
The myrtle (ensign of supreme command, Consigned by Venus to Melissa's hand) Not less capricious than a reigning fair, Oft favors, oft rejects a lover's prayer; In myrtle shades oft sings the happy swain, In myrtle shades despairing ghosts complain.
Samuel Johnson, Written at the Request of a Gentleman, line 3.
Dark-green and gemm'd with flowers of snow, With close uncrowded branches spread Not proudly high, nor meanly low, A graceful myrtle rear'd its head.
In the marsh pink orchid's faces, With their coy and dainty graces, Lure us to their hiding places , Laugh, O murmuring Spring!
In the marsh pink orchid's faces, With their coy and dainty graces, Lure us to their hiding places , Laugh, O murmuring Spring!
Sarah F. Davis, Summer Song, reported in Hoyt's New Cyclopedia Of Practical Quotations (1922), p. 574.
Around the pillars of the palm-tree bower The orchids cling, in rose and purple spheres; Shield-broad the lily floats; the aloe flower Foredates its hundred years.
Bayard Taylor, Canopus, reported in Hoyt's New Cyclopedia Of Practical Quotations (1922), p. 574.
Art thou a type of beauty, or of power, Of sweet enjoyment, or disastrous sin? For each thy name denoteth, Passion flower!
Art thou a type of beauty, or of power, Of sweet enjoyment, or disastrous sin? For each thy name denoteth, Passion flower! O no! thy pure corolla's depth within We trace a holier symbol; yea, a sign 'Twixt God and man; a record of that hour When the expiatory act divine Cancelled that curse which was our mortal dower. It is the Cross!
Sir Aubrey De Vere, A Song of Faith, Devout Exercises and Sonnets, "The Passion Flower"; reported in Hoyt's New Cyclopedia Of Practical Quotations (1922), p. 581.
Her heart was a passion-flower, bearing within it the crown of thorns and the cross of Christ.
Jeremy Taylor, reported in Josiah Hotchkiss Gilbert, Dictionary of Burning Words of Brilliant Writers (1895), p. 397.
And I will pu' the pink, the emblem o' my dear, For she's the pink o' womankind, and blooms without a peer.
Robert Burns, O Luve Will Venture In; reported in Hoyt's New Cyclopedia Of Practical Quotations (1922), p. 597.
The beauteous pink I would not slight. Pride of the gardener's leisure.
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, The Floweret Wondrous Fair, Stanza 8. John S. Dwight's translation; reported in Hoyt's New Cyclopedia Of Practical Quotations (1922), p. 597.
Ring-ting! I wish I were a primrose, A bright yellow primrose blowing in the spring! The stooping boughs above me, The wandering bee to love me, The fern and moss to creep across, And the elm-tree for our king!
Robert Burns, My Chloris, Mark How Green the Groves.
"I could have brought you some primroses, but I do not like to mix violets with anything." "They say primroses make a capital salad," said Lord St. Jerome.
A tuft of evening primroses, O'er which the mind may hover till it dozes; O'er which it well might take a pleasant sleep, But that 'tis ever startled by the leap Of buds into ripe flowers.
Mild offspring of a dark and sullen sire! Whose modest form, so delicately fine, Was nursed in whirling storms, And cradled in the winds. Thee when young spring first question'd winter's sway, And dared the sturdy blusterer to the fight, Thee on his bank he threw To mark his victory.
From the white-blossomed sloe, my dear Chloe requested, A sprig her fair breast to adorn. No! by Heav'n, I exclaim'd, may I perish, If ever I plant in that bosom a thorn.
John O'Keefe, The Thorn, reported in Hoyt's New Cyclopedia Of Practical Quotations (1922), p. 721.
Thou beautiful new comer, With white and maiden brow; Thou fairy gift from summer, Why art thou blooming now? This dim and sheltered alley Is dark with winter green; Not such as in the valley At sweet spring-time is seen.
At the head of Flora's dance; Simple Snow-drop, then in thee All thy sister-train I see; Every brilliant bud that blows, From the blue-bell to the rose; All the beauties that appear, On the bosom of the Year, All that wreathe the locks of Spring, Summer's ardent breath perfume, Or on the lap of Autumn bloom, All to thee their tribute bring.
Lone Flower, hemmed in with snows and white as they But hardier far, once more I see thee bend Thy forehead, as if fearful to offend, Like an unbidden guest. Though day by day, Storms, sallying from the mountain tops, waylay The rising sun, and on the plains descend; Yet art thou welcome, welcome as a friend Whose zeal outruns his promise!
The pea is but a wanton witch In too much haste to wed, And clasps her rings on every hand.
Thomas Hood, Flowers; reported in Hoyt's New Cyclopedia Of Practical Quotations (1922), p. 591.
Here are sweet peas, on tiptoe for a flight; With wings of gentle flush o'er delicate white, And taper fingers catching at all things, To bind them all about with tiny rings.
John Keats, I Stood Tiptoe Upon a Little Hill; reported in Hoyt's New Cyclopedia Of Practical Quotations (1922), p. 591.
Up climb’d the sweet pea, The butterfly of flowers:—I love it not, Though every hue—and it has many tints— Are dyed as if the sunset evening clouds Had fallen to the earth in sudden rain, And left their colours: purple, delicate pink, And snowy white, are on thy wing-like leaves; But thou art all too forward in thy bloom; Thy blossoms are the sun’s, and cling to all That can support them into open day: And then they die, leaving no root behind, The hope and promise of another spring; And no perfume, whose lingering gratitude Remains round what upheld its summer’s life.
Up wi' the flowers o' Scotland, The emblems o' the free, Their guardians for a thousand years, Their guardians still we'll be. A foe had better brave the de'il Within his reeky cell, Than our thistle's purple bonnet, Or bonny heather bell.
Thomas Hood, The Flowers of Scotland; reported in Hoyt's New Cyclopedia Of Practical Quotations (1922), p. 787.
When on the breath of Autumn's breeze, From pastures dry and brown, Goes floating, like an idle thought, The fair, white thistle-down; O, then what joy to walk at will, Upon the golden harvest-hill!
Mary Howitt, Corn-Fields; reported in Hoyt's New Cyclopedia Of Practical Quotations (1922), p. 787.
The tuberose, with her silvery light, That in the gardens of Malay Is call'd the Mistress of the Night, So like a bride, scented and bright; She comes out when the sun's away.
Thomas Moore, Lalla Rookh (1817), Light of the Harem, reported in Hoyt's New Cyclopedia Of Practical Quotations (1922), p. 822.
Violets! — deep-blue violets! April's loveliest coronets! There are no flowers grow in the vale, Kiss'd by the dew, wooed by the gale, — None by the dew of the twilight wet, So sweet as the deep-blue violet!
Though many a flower may win my praise, The violet has my love; I did not pass my childish days In garden or in grove: My garden was the window-seat, Upon whose edge was set A little vase—the fair, the sweet— It was the violet.
Letitia Elizabeth Landon, The Literary Souvenir, 1831 (1830), 'The Violet', also published in The Vow of the Peacock (1835)
The slender water-lily Peeps dreamingly out of the lake; The moon, oppress'd with love's sorrow, Looks tenderly down for her sake. Now folds the lily all her sweetness up, And slips into the bosom of the lake.
Summer night, blossoming in the pond, water-lilies and stars
Now folds the lily all her sweetness up, And slips into the bosom of the lake; So fold thyself, my dearest, thou, and slip Into my bosom, and be lost in me.
The slender water-lily Peeps dreamingly out of the lake; The moon, oppress'd with love's sorrow, Looks tenderly down for her sake.
Heinrich Heine, Book of Songs, New Spring, No. 15, Stanza 1.
Broad water-lilies lay tremulously. And starry river-buds glimmered by, And around them the soft stream did glide and dance With a motion of sweet sound and radiance.
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