I love giving flowers. It is so deliciously unlasting and romantic.
When a daffadill I see, Hanging down his head towards me, Guess I may, what I must be: First, I shall decline my head; Secondly, I shall be dead: Lastly, safely buryed.
I pray, what flowers are these? The pansy this, O, that's for lover's thoughts.
If you want to say it with flowers, a single rose says: 'I'm cheap!'
I do love violets; they tell the history of woman's love.
stay together learn the flowers go light
Never look a tulip in the eye.
Every word affords me pain. Yet how sweet it would be if I could hear what the flowers have to say about death!
The calla lilies are in bloom again. Such a strange flower—suitable to any occasion. I carried them on my wedding day, and now I place them here in memory of something that has died.
I don't think there is anything magical about the language of flowers in real life or in my book.
The blue and bright-eyed floweret of the brook, Hope's gentle gem, the sweet Forget-me-not.
I've always loved flowers, as a little girl I'd collect flower objects and little flower books. Now I love flowers on my night table and on my desk.
The Victorian language of flowers began with the publication of 'Le Language des Fleurs,' written by Charlotte de Latour and printed in Paris in 1819. To create the book - which was a list of flowers and their meanings - de Latour gathered references to flower symbolism throughout poetry, ancient mythology, and even medicine.
In Eastern lands they talk in flowers, And they tell in a garland their loves and cares; Each blossom that blooms in their garden bowers, On its leaves a mystic language bears.
