Roses Quotes (page 23)
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What time has been wasted during man's destiny in the struggle to decide what man's next world will be like! The keener the effort to find out, the less he knew about the present one he lived in. The one lovely world he knew, lived in, that gave him all he had, was, according to preacher and prelate, the one to be least in his thoughts. He was recommended, ordered, from the day of his birth to bid goodbye to it. Oh, we have had enough of the abuse of this fair earth! It is no sad truth that...
Sean O'Casey
But when Odysseus rose, that man of many devices, fixing his down-cast eyes on the ground he stood: nor his scepter swayed, either this way or that like a practiced speaker, but held it motionless, even as a man unskilled in the arts of persuasion. One would declare him mute with passion or wanting in judgment. But when he spoke, when his powerful voice went forth from his bosom, issuing words which fell like flakes of snow in winter, surely no mortal man might hope to compete with Odysseus....
Homer
It is not while beauty. And youth are thine own. And thy cheeks. Unprofaned by a tear. That the ferver and faith. Of a soul can be known. To which time will but Make thee more dear. No the heart that has truly loved. Never forgets. But as truly loves. On to the close. As the sunflower turns. On her god when he sets. The same look which. She'd turned when he rose.
Thomas Moore
And as for Owen Warland, he looked placidly at what seemed the ruin of his life's labor, and which was yet no ruin. He had caught a far other butterfly than this. When the artist rose high enough to achieve the beautiful, the symbol by which he made it perceptible to mortal senses became of little value in his eyes while his spirit possessed itself in the enjoyment of the reality.
Nathaniel Hawthorne
An oak tree and a rosebush grew, Young and green together, Talking the talk of growing things-Wind and water and weather. And while the rosebush sweetly bloomed. The oak tree grew so high. That now it spoke of newer things-Eagles, mountain peaks and sky."I guess you think you're pretty great,"The rose was heard to cry, Screaming as loud as it possibly could. To the treetop in the sky."And now you have no time for flower talk, Now that you've grown so tall."It's not so much that I've grown,"...
Shel Silverstein
She loves most the wet colours of his neck when he bathes. And his chest with with its sweat which her fingers grip when he is over her, and the dark, tough arms in the darkness of his tent, or one time in her room when light from the valley's city, finally free of curfew, rose among them like twilight and lit the colour of his body.
Michael Ondaatje