Quotes 41 till 60 of 132.
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Her heart was a secret garden and the walls were very high.
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Human life began in flight and fear. Religion rose from rituals of propitiation, spells to lull the punishing elements.
Sexual Personae: Art and Decadence from Nefertiti to Emily Dickinson (1990) -
I died a mineral, and became a plant. I died a plant and rose an animal. I died an animal and I was man. Why should I fear? When was I less by dying?
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I have always believed that God never gives a cross to bear larger than we can carry. No matter what, he wants us to be happy, not sad. Birds sing after a storm. Why shouldn't we?
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I know not age, nor weariness nor defeat.
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I never had any other desire so strong, and so like to covetousness, as that one which I have had always, that I might be master at last of a small house and a large Garden.
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I once had a rose named after me and I was very flattered. But I was not pleased to read the description in the catalogue: no good in a bed, but fine up against a wall.
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I rose by sheer military ability to the rank of corporal.
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I'll never stop a bullet but a bullet might stop me.
I'll never drink the ocean but the ocean might drink me.
And I'll never raise a portrait to a gentle man in blue
And I'll never sing a love song for a love that isn't true. I love how the garden grows
And I love the garden rose.Imagine Our Love Garden Rose -
If Everton were playing down the bottom of my garden, I'd draw the curtains.
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If I could be more vague I'd write more about people in my life, but I hate hurting feelings or making people feel uncomfortable. I've done that before. Unless they're sad songs. Those get finished fast, but the mean ones often end up at the back of the bottom drawer and it's probably for the best.
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If I'm singing something I don't like, it literally feels like stepping on nails.
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If we make our goal to live a life of compassion and unconditional love, then the world will indeed become a garden where all kinds of flowers can bloom and grow.
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In my garden there is a large place for sentiment. My garden of flowers is also my garden of thoughts and dreams. The thoughts grow as freely as the flowers, and the dreams are as beautiful.
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In real life, unlike in Shakespeare, the sweetness of the rose depends upon the name it bears. Things are not only what they are. They are, in very important respects, what they seem to be.
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In spring's own country, where the gardens blow,
You faded, tender rose! For hours now past,
Like butterflies departing, on you're cast
The worms of memories to work you woe.Crimean Sonnets The Grave of the Countess Potocki -
In the present age, alas! our pens are ravished by unlettered authors and unmannered critics, that make a havoc rather than a building, a wilderness rather than a garden. But, a lack! what boots it to drop tears upon the preterit?
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It gets to seem as if way back in the Garden of Eden after the Fall, Adam and Eve had begged the Lord to forgive them and He, in his boundless exasperation, had said, ''All right, then. Stay. Stay in the Garden. Get civilized. Procreate. Muck it up.'' And they did.
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