Maggie Stiefvater Quotes

I drew my bride, beneath the moon,Across my threshold; happy hour!But, ah, the walk that afternoonWe saw the water-flags in flower!

Love is the scent of a sleeping back, death a slight draft of bad breath.

Love is like a flower, even the most beautiful kind dies.

Love lives with Nature, not with lust. Go find her in the flowers.

Here are fruits, flowers, leaves and branches, and here is my heart which beats only for you.

How joyful to be together, alone as when we first were joined in our little house by the river long ago, except that now we know each other, as we did not then; and now instead of two stories fumbling to meet, we belong to one story that the two, joining, made. And now we touch each other with the tenderness of mortals, who know themselves

You are never truly together with one you love until the person in question is dead and actually inside you.

Raindrops blossom brilliantly in the rainbow, and change to flowers in the sod, but snow comes in full flower direct from the dark, frozen sky.

Flowers are the beautiful hieroglyphics of nature with which she indicates how much she loves us.

We are dust and to dust return. In the end we're neither air, nor fire, nor water, just dirt, neither more nor less, just dirt, and maybe some yellow flowers.

since feeling is first who pays any attention to the syntax of things will never wholly kiss you; wholly to be a fool while Spring is in the world my blood approves, and kisses are a far better fate than wisdom lady i swear by all flowers. Don't cry --the best gesture of my brain is less than your eyelids' flutter which says we are for eachother: then laugh, leaning back in my arms for life's not a paragraph And death i think is no parenthesis

I want to die on your chest but not yet she wrote sometime in the 13th century of our love

In the garden the door is always open into the "holy" - growth, birth, death. Every flower holds the whole mystery in its short cycle, and in the garden we are never far away from death, the fertilizing, good, creative death.

I'll have that someday, thought Peter. Someone who'll kiss me good-bye at the door. Or maybe just someone to put a blindfold over my head before they shoot me. Depending on how things turn out.

Myriads of daisies have shone forth in flower Near the lark's nest, and in their natural hour Have passed away; less happy than the one That by the unwilling ploughshare died to prove The tender charm of poetry and love.

Her death would leave me scattered, talking to chairs and pillows. Don't let us die, I want to cry out to that fifth-century sky ablaze with mystery and spiral light. Let us both live forever, in sickness and health, feebleminded, doddering, toothless, liver-spotted, dim-sighted, hallucinating. Who decides these things? What is out there? Who are you?

I know the place. It is true. Everything we do Corrects the space Between death and me And you.

Love is not love that wounded bleeds And bleeding sullies slow. Come death within my hands and I Unto my love will go.

For they had lived together long enough to know that love was always love, anytime and anyplace, but it was more solid the closer it came to death.

Apparently with no surprise To any happy Flower The Frost beheads it at its play -- In accidental power -- The blonde Assassin passes on -- The Sun proceeds unmoved To measure off another Day For an Approving God.

time is a tree (this life one leaf) but love is the sky and i am for you just so long and long enough

The birds that were singing in the dew-drenched garden seemed to be telling the flowers about her.

Love has its roots in sex, but its foliage and flowers are in the pure light of spirit.

I've never made love to a ghost but I have made love to men who are a few years away from becoming a ghost.