Out of my deeper heart a bird rose and flew skywards. Higher and higher did it rise, yet larger and larger did it grow. At first it was but like a swallow, then a lark, then an eagle, then as vast as a spring cloud, and then it filled the starry heavens. Out of my heart a bird flew skywards. And it waxed larger as it flew. Yet it left not my heart.
After twenty annual visits, I am still surprised each time I return to see this giant asparagus bed of alabaster and rose and green skyscrapers.
There is no such thing as a bed of roses all your life.
I'm the type of guy who likes to be there 24-7. I'm Mr. Roses.
Our problem isn't that the universe isn't on our side; the problem is that too many of us numb these days, not awake to the game, or to the power of the universe that flows through our psychic veins. Some of us need to stop whining. It's not like we're the first generation who faced serious challenges. But others rose to the occasion, and we need to too.
A breath, whence no man knows, Swaying the grating weeds, it blows; It comes, it grieves, it goes. Once it rocked the summer rose.
Can anyone remember love? It's like trying to summon up the smell of roses in a cellar. You might see a rose, but never the perfume.
No doubt they rose up early to observe the rite of May; and, hearing our intent, Came here in grace of our solemnity.
There are some things, after all, that Sally Owens knows for certain: Always throw spilled salt over your left shoulder. Keep rosemary by your garden gate. Add pepper to your mashed potatoes. Plant roses and lavender, for luck. Fall in love whenever you can.
Valentine's Day money-saving tips: Break up on February 13th, get back together on the 15th. In place of bubble bath, use lavender-scented dish-washing liquid. Forget rose petals. Sprinkle the bed with sliced beets!
I do not know who lives here in my chest, or why the smile comes. I am not myself, more the bare green knob of a rose that lost every leaf and petal to the morning wind.
For those roses bright, oh, those roses bright! I have twined them in my sister's locks That are hid in the dust from sight.
When someone writes something hateful and threatening I respond with something like, "I want to be so much like you; I want to wear your skin. " By messing with them in that way you change what they're selling. They won't share it. And it halts the conversation. Or I'll change it to "Jenny, you're like a rose bush that grew a watermelon. " They come back pissed off and write, "I didn't say that!"
Tis emblematic, the rose of youth and health soon fades when watered by the tear of affliction.
That afternoon my mother had brought me the roses. "Save them for my funeral," I'd said.
Rentals sank, living rose. I could not afford help. I must be owner, agent, landlady and janitor. I loathed landladying. . . I tried in every way to augment my income. Small fruit, hens, rabbits, dogs - pottery. . . I never painted now - had neither time nor wanting. For about fifteen years I did not paint.
No rose without a thorn but many a thorn without a rose.
Rose: You have a gift Jack, you do. You see people. Jack: I see you. Rose: And? Jack: You wouldn't have jumped.
Availability of the best also is limited in our culture. And it's also extremely expensive. It's ridiculous. A kilogram of rose oil costs me very much. By the time it is shipped here and we pay tariffs, how much more do I have to charge the consumer? And then who could afford to buy it? That is why people sell synthetic rose and end up poisoning themselves. It shouldn't be that way.
How easy it is for men to be swollen with admiration of their own strength and glory, and to be lifted up so high as to lose sight both of the ground whence they rose, and the hand that advanced them.