John Greenleaf Whittier Quotes

Where flowers bloom so does hope.

The peach-bud glows, the wild bee hums, and wind-flowers wave in graceful gladness.

Every flower about a house certifies to the refinement of somebody. Every vine climbing and blossoming tells of love and joy

I think flowers are very beautiful things. Very nice and innocent things. They don't harm anybody.

He who only does not appreciate floral beauty is to be pitied like any other man who is born imperfect. It is a misfortune not unlike blindness.

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.

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 purple dress, The pink with cheek of red, Or the faint, fair heliotrope, who hangs, Like a bashful maid her head.

Man is saved by love and duty, and by the hope that springs from duty, or rather from the moral facts of consciousness, as a flower springs from the soil.

The spring is already here with her hands full of flowers.

Be surprised by joy, be surprised by the little flower that shows its beauty in the midst of a barren desert, and be surprised by the immense healing power that keeps bursting forth like springs of fresh water from the depth of our pain.

These flowers are like the pleasures of the world.

It was a perfect spring afternoon, and the air was filled with vague, roving scents, as if the earth exhaled the sweetness of hidden flowers.

The spring's already at the gate With looks my care beguiling; The country round appeareth straight A flower-garden smiling.

Look around at the azaleas making fuchsia star bursts in spring; look at a full moon hanging silver in a black sky on a cold night. And realize that life is glorious, and that you have no business taking it for granted.

A comely sight indeed it is to see, a world of blossoms on an apple tree.

Fewer things are lovelier to me than a full-blown rose when it opens up its heart.

And the yellow sunflower by the brook, in autumn beauty stood.

Still sweet with blossoms is the year's fresh prime.

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.