Roses Quotes

“No time to grieve for roses when the forests are burning.”
― Juliusz Słowacki

“Women Are Not Roses

Women have no
beginning
only continual
flows.

Though rivers flow
women are not
rivers.

Women are not
roses
they are not oceans
or stars.

i would like to tell
her this but
i think she
already knows.”
― Ana Castillo, Women Are Not Roses

“The rose has told
In one simplicity
That never life
Relinquishes a bloom
But to bestow
An ancient confidence.”
― Nathalia Crane, Venus Invisible and Other Poems

“Rose, oh pure contradiction, joy
of being No-one's sleep under so many
lids.”
― Rainer Maria Rilke, The Selected Poetry of Rainer Maria Rilke

“If all we had were roses, would the thorns then be beautiful?”
― Kamand Kojouri

“I breathe in...
the fragrance
of love, and moist sand
the one
his roses left
on both my hands

I just keep on breathing
every moment
as much as I can
preserving it, in my body
for the day
it can’t.”
― Sanober Khan, A touch, a tear, a tempest

“When life is not coming up roses
Look to the weeds
and find the beauty hidden within them.”
― L.F.Young

“Rosa que al prado, encarnada,
te ostentas presuntuosa
de grana y carmín bañada:
campa lozana y gustosa;
pero no, que siendo hermosa
tambien serás desdichada.”
― Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz, Obras completas

“My love,
you are driving the entire world mad.
The nightingales are committing suicide
one by one out of jealousy of your voice.
The roses took one glance at your beauty
and folded themselves from shame.
The trees now only whisper your name
and the sky hasn’t stopped crying since you looked up.
Have pity on us, my love.
We have already broken all the mirrors and glass
out of fear that you will forget us
and fall in love with yourself
once you see what we all
cannot stop seeing.”
― Kamand Kojouri

“There were crimson roses on the bench; they looked like splashes of blood.”
― Dorothy L. Sayers, Strong Poison

“I haven't much time to be fond of anything ... but when I have a moment's fondness to bestow, most times ... the roses get it. I began my life among them in my father's nursery garden, and I shall end my life among them, if I can. Yes. One of these days (please God) I shall retire from catching thieves, and try my hand at growing roses.”
― Wilkie Collins, The Moonstone

“Women show men beauty in things beyond their ambitions. Women tell men to stop and smell the roses.”
― Criss Jami, Diotima, Battery, Electric Personality

“Life is uncertain.
Today you get a rose.
Tomorrow you feel the thorns.
But the end result is red, always!!”
― Shillpi S Banerrji

“I will admit you are the finest if not the loveliest rose in the garden. But you see, my dear, I was looking for a sunflower.”
― Richelle E. Goodrich, Being Bold: Quotes, Poetry, & Motivations for Every Day of the Year

“In a world full of roses, stand out like a dandelion in the middle of a green, plush lawn!”
― June Stoyer

“If you don't feel the pointed things in life, you'll soon take the soft ones for granted.”
― John Everson, Cage of Bones & Other Deadly Obsessions

“And the roses—the roses! Rising out of the grass, tangled round the sun-dial, wreathing the tree trunks and hanging from their branches, climbing up the walls and spreading over them with long garlands falling in cascades—they came alive day by day, hour by hour. Fair fresh leaves, and buds—and buds—tiny at first but swelling and working Magic until they burst and uncurled into cups of scent delicately spilling themselves over their brims and filling the garden air.”
― Frances Hodgson Burnett, The Secret Garden

“Stat rosa pristina nomine, nomina nuda tenemos.”
― Bernard Of Cluny, Scorn for the World: Bernard of Cluny's De Contemptu Mundi

“Sah ein Knab' ein Röslein stehn,
Röslein auf der Heiden,
war so jung und morgenschön,
lief er schnell, es nah zu sehn,
sah's mit vielen Freuden.
Röslein, Röslein, Röslein rot,
Röslein auf der Heiden.

Knabe sprach: „Ich breche dich,
Röslein auf der Heiden!“
Röslein sprach: „Ich steche dich,
dass du ewig denkst an mich,
und ich will's nicht leiden.“
Röslein, Röslein, Röslein rot,
Röslein auf der Heiden.

Und der wilde Knabe brach's
Röslein auf der Heiden;
Röslein wehrte sich und stach,
half ihm doch kein Weh und Ach,
musst' es eben leiden.
Röslein, Röslein, Röslein rot,
Röslein auf der Heiden.”
― Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, Gedichte (Bd. 1).

“You think too much of your "toilette", Adele; but you may have a flower." I took a rose from a vase and fastened it in her sash. She sighed a sign of ineffable satisfaction, as if her cup of happiness were now full. I turned my face away to conceal a smile I could not suppress; there was something ludicrous as well as painful in the little Parisienne's earnest and innate devotion to matters of dress.”
― Charlotte Brontë, Jane Eyre

“The language of roses shifts under our feet. It blows in and out like the wind. It carries the fragrance of the flower and then it is gone...It is how we learn to speak about something that is disappearing as we say its name.”
― Helen Humphreys, The Lost Garden

“Summer, when apple blossoms bloom, roses rise, lilacs lie, dandelions are dandy, and daisies are doozies, a time when flies fly, bugs bug, bees be, swallows swallow, and ducks duck.”
― GLEN NESBITT, SUS: Short Unpredictable Stories

“My giddy soul is all perfumed
Of your flesh and white roses.”
― Renée Vivien, The Muse of the Violets: Poems

“Roses have thorns. Those are like flower fangs. Roses are the vampires of the plant world.”
― Jarod Kintz, A Memoir of Memories and Memes

“And the smell was so... thick, you know? Best way I can describe it. Like honey cake, and fresh watermelon and treacle all rolled into one. I could taste it in the air, it was so strong. I bought so many bottles of rosewater on that trip I must have looked like some kind of smuggler at customs.”
― Nadia El-Fassi, Best Hex Ever

“Early settlers loved the precious cuttings that they nurtured on long voyages. Able to carry only a few belongings in their boats and wagons, thousands of families packed a living reminder of loveliness alongside the bare necessities.
One finds such roses still blooming beside wayside taverns where they stopped. They color long-abandoned wells and broken wagon wheels in pink and white. They flower like yellow sunrise around the doorways of the frontier homes those families built.
And along old cart tracks through the woods, they still offer comfort to those who didn't make it. A titled tiny gravestone -- Abigail, aged 2 years, 4 months, 1 day -- and beside it the red rose of never-ending love that blooms again each June.”
― Aurelia C. Scott, Otherwise Normal People: Inside the Thorny World of Competitive Rose Gardening

“The garden itself was enjoying the painted-on brightness of the day. The flowers were in full bloom--- the dramatic pink of the Duchess of Sutherland roses and the flesh-colored Madame Audots met Harriet's eye as she stepped out of the house. Flanking those stood the La Reines with their silvery undertones and the cabbage roses to the right. The cabbage roses, though they did not have a grand name, were Harriet's favorite. More layers inside one flower than she could even count. She inhaled the sweet smell of the Duchesses and watched as every last bloom turned to face her as she padded barefoot from the door onto the stone walkway, bordered by lush green moss. Satisfied that Harriet was content, the flowers resumed their nourishing tilt toward the sky. The stones were cool beneath her feet.”
― Chelsea Iversen, The Peculiar Garden of Harriet Hunt

“She carried with her a tender caress for the stems and petals she meant to harvest, thanking them for their beauty and letting them give themselves over to her rather than taking them en masse with reckless haste. She knelt beside the patch of Christmas roses that grew beneath the parlor window. Harriet wondered, as she had a thousand times, how this flower could withstand the colder months with petals so delicate. Small white faces with pale yellow middles turned to look up at Harriet, almost adoringly, and she let their gaze infuse her with warmth. This is how they do it, she thought. They are filled with the magic of love. It was impossible for her to be out in her garden and not feel the love all around, almost consuming her, even on this cold, dreary day.”
― Chelsea Iversen, The Peculiar Garden of Harriet Hunt

“In your fragrance, I smell roses everywhere. In your light, every word on my lips weaves a poem. You live inside my depths and in your living, I become a giver of light.”
― Jayita Bhattacharjee

“Do you remember those roses that Caitriona used to have in her garden? The great, puffy ones that have layers of petals that open when they bloom?"
Elspeth nodded.
Freya turned her glass thoughtfully. "Imagine that the outer petals of the rose are all of society--- everyone you don't know. And that the center where the pistil lies is you."
"I can never remember which part the pistil is," Elspeth confessed.
Freya gave her a look. "How many times did Caitriona explain this to you? The pistil is the part in the center that becomes the rose hip when it's pollinated." Her sister set aside her drink and cupped her hands together. "These are the outside of the rose, the petals that guard against the world that doesn't know you at all." She slowly opened her fingers. "Inside are more petals---they represent your acquaintances. The people whom you greet on the street or whom you might talk to at a ball. They know you, but they probably couldn't tell you that strawberry tart is your favorite pudding."
"Ohhh," Elspeth said, "I'm beginning to see." Though she still wasn't sure how the rose pertained to love.
"I hope so," Freya said. "But remember that there are even more petals beneath those." She let her hands drop as she smiled at Elspeth ruefully. "I can't demonstrate with my hands, so imagine that rose with all the petals curled each within each other. The third layer are your closest friends and family. The people you live with. The people you grew up with. They know you better than the outer two groups of petals, don't they?"
Elspeth nodded. Rings within rings, each smaller than the last, each closer to oneself.
"These people know you very well," Freya said. "They know what you like and dislike, they know the type of person you are. But there's a last ring." She wrinkled her nose. "No, not a ring. Perhaps the stamen sitting next to your pistil at the very center of the rose." For some reason, her cheeks pinked as she smiled privately. "That is the person who knows your mind and your soul and your heart.”
― Elizabeth Hoyt, No Ordinary Duchess