Paul Verlaine Quotes

Tumbling-hair picker of buttercups violets dandelions And the big bullying daisies through the field wonderful with eyes a little sorry Another comes also picking flowers

There is something so amiable in the prejudices of a young mind, that one is sorry to see them give way to the reception of more general opinions.

A three year old child is a being who gets almost as much fun out of a fifty-six dollar set of swings as it does out of finding a small green worm.

I grew up around the Luxembourg Gardens, so I guess that is my best memory.

I used to be a dusty little child.

Yeah, we were looking for a way to represent adulthood and the passing into adulthood. And I think, for me personally and a lot of the folks that I work with, childhood is kind of a sacred, special kind of point in time that has a real joy and purity to it. And we sort of long on a daily basis to reach back and kind of grab onto that in some way.

When the boys come into my yard for leave to gather horse-chestnuts, I own I enter into nature's game, and affect to grant the permission reluctantly, fearing that any moment they will find out the imposture of that showy chaff. But this tenderness is quite unnecessary; the enchantments are laid on very thick. Their young life is thatched with them. Bare and grim to tears is the lot of the children in the hovel I saw yesterday; yet not the less they hang it round with frippery romance, like the children of the happiest fortune.

And...I think that's what life is all about, actually, about children and flowers.

Where innocent bright-eyes daisies are With blades of grass between, Each daisy stands up like a star Out of a sky of green.

They looked like two children," she told me. And that thought frightened her, because she'd always felt that only children are capable of everything.

Nature has thrown a veil of modest beauty over maidenhood and moss-roses.

Is not thy home among the flowers?

Everybody's twelve years old in an apple orchard.

Yes, I'd love to have a garden of my own--spacious, and full of everything that is fragrant and flowering. But if I don't succeed, never mind--I've still got the dream.

Aching familiar in a way that made me wish I was still eight. Eight was before death or divorce or heartbreak. Eight was just eight. Hot dogs and peanut butter, mosquito bites and splinters, bikes and boogie boards. Tangled hair, sunburned shoulders, Judy Blume, in bed by nine thirty.

We must remain as close to the flowers, the grass, and the butterflies as the child is who is not yet so much taller than they are. We adults, on the other hand, have outgrown them and have to lower ourselves to stoop down to them. It seems to me that the grass hates us when we confess our love for it. Whoever would partake of all good things must understand how to be small at times.

Flowers of all hue, and without thorn the rose.

Mother said," mocked the king. "Don't be childish." "We're children," Myrcella declared haughtily. "We're supposed to be childish." The Hound laughed. "She has you there.

Be a child again. Flirt. Giggle. Dip your cookies in your milk. Take a nap. Say you're sorry if you hurt someone. Chase a butterfly. Be a child again.