James Schuyler Quotes

In my nostrils still lives the breath of flowers that perished twenty years ago.

The mix in our rooms is so touching: the clutter and the cracks in the wall belie a bleakness or brokenness in our lives; while photos and a few rare objects show our pride, our rare shining moments ... these rooms are future ruins

These flowers are like the pleasures of the world.

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

I was never one to begrudge people their memories. From a child I would listen when they spoke of the past.

If you love a flower that lives on a star, it is sweet to look at the sky at night. All the stars are a-bloom with flowers.

When I have plucked the rose, I cannot give it vital growth again, It needs must wither. I'll smell it on the tree.

I like to see flowers growing, but when they are gathered, they cease to please. I look on them as things rootless and perishable; their likeness to life makes me sad. I never offer flowers to those I love; I never wish to receive them from hands dear to me.

Beautiful things grow to a certain height and then they fail and fade off, breathing out memories as they decay.

Look at the fate of summer flowers, which blow at daybreak, droop ere even-song.

stay together learn the flowers go light

Memories which someday will become all beautiful when the last annoyance that encumbers them shall have faded out of our minds.

She had died at age twelve, and by now she was nothing but the memory of love-- nothing, now, but bones.

Isn't it odd how much fatter a book gets when you've read it several times?" Mo had said..."As if something were left between the pages every time you read it. Feelings, thoughts, sounds, smells...and then, when you look at the book again many years later, you find yourself there, too, a slightly younger self, slightly different, as if the book had preserved you like a pressed flower...both strange and familiar.

I should like to freeze in time all those I do love, keep them somehow safe from the ravages of the passing years..."Rather like flowers pressed between the pages of a book!

Where have all the flowers gone