William Cullen Bryant Quotes

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 air came laden with the fragrance it caught upon its way, and the bees, upborne upon its scented breath, hummed forth their drowsy satisfaction as they floated by.

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.

I have a garden of my own, But so with roses overgrown, And lilies, that you would it guess To be a little wilderness.

What a lovely thing a rose is!

Everyone was a rose but even more complex than a mere flower. Everyone was made up of infinitely layered petals. And everyone had something indescribably precious at the heart of their being. No one was shallow. Not really.

Holy flowers floating in the air, were all these tired faces in the dawn of Jazz America.

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

Where unwilling dies the rose; buds the new another year.

A rose can never be a sunflower, and a sunflower can never be a rose. All flowers are beautiful in their own way, and that's like woman too.

If thou canst but thither, There grows the flower of Peace, The Rose that cannot wither, Thy fortress and thy ease.

And that dismal cry rose slowly And sank slowly through the air, Full of spirit's melancholy And eternity's despair; And they heard the words it said,- "Pan is dead! great Pan is dead! Pan, Pan is dead!"

The fairest things have fleetest end, Their scent survives their close: But the rose's scent is bitterness To him that loved the rose.

The breath of flowers is far sweeter in the air than in the hand.

The sun goes down long and red. All the magic names of the valley unrolled - Manteca, Madera, all the rest. Soon it got dusk, a grapy dusk, a purple dusk over tangerine groves and long melon field; the sun the color of pressed grapes, slashed with burgundy red, the fields the color of love and Spanish mysteries. I stuck my head out the window and took deep breaths of the fragant air. It was the most beautiful of all moments.

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.

Of all the flowers, me thinks a rose is best.

Thanks be to God, the air is soft as in April in Seville, and it is a pleasure to be in it, so fragrant it is.

The air in Provence is impregnated with the aroma of garlic, which makes it very healthful to breathe.

Flowers of all hue, and without thorn the rose.