Quotes & Sayings About A Rose That Blooms

Hold fast
To the law
Of the last
Cold tome,
Where the earth
Of the truth
Lies thick
On the page,
And the loam
Of faith
In the ink
Long fled
From the drone
Of the nib
Flows on
Through the breath
Of the bone
Reborn
In a dawn
Of doom
Where blooms
The rose
For the winds
The child
For the tomb
The thrush
For the hush
Of song,
The corn
For the scythe
And the thorn
In wait
For the heart
Till the last
Of the first
Depart,
And the least
Of the past
Is dust
And the dust
Is lost.
Hold fast! — Mervyn Peake

And warns us to use life's beauty as it blooms. The thorn is spurned when the rose has dropped. — Ovid

And we often have a smile on our face and a word of encouragement, because no one can explain their loneliness to others, especially when we are always in good company. But this loneliness exists and eats away at the best parts of us because we must use all our energy to appear happy, even though we will never be able to deceive ourselves. But we insist, every morning, on showing only the rose that blooms, and keep the thorny stem that hurts — Paulo Coelho

We're born to die, but don't know why or what it's all about
And, the more we try to learn, the less we know.
Life's a very funny proposition, you can bet,
And no one's ever solved the problem properly, as yet;
Young for a day, then old and gray,
Like the rose that buds and blooms, and fades and falls away.
Losing health, to gain our wealth, as through this dream we tour;
Ev'rything's a guess and nothing's absolutely sure.
Battles exciting, and fates we're fighting, until the curtain fall;
Life's a very funny proposition, after all. — George M. Cohan

Behave like the flower; it blooms with its own petals without bothering to take the colour of another flower's petals. You can excel with what you have! — Israelmore Ayivor

The wind whirls and whistles and strip pink blooms from the mimosas, scatters twigs, broken limbs, pine needles and pine cones across our yard, and robs the pecan trees of a thousand leaves. The storm eventually dies, but the bruised trees continue to weep into the night, still shimmering with dewy leaves when the sun comes up the next morning. — Brenda Sutton Rose

The Rose is without 'why' - she blooms because she blooms. — Angelus Silesius

I love you," he says, though once he's done it I can see he isn't happy with it. He shakes his head and clicks his fingers, then puts his hand on his chest as he makes the declaration. "I love you."
"The second one," I tell him, mainly because the second one gave me goose bumps. "Definitely."
"Or I could do it on one knee? Maybe add a bit of poetry? My love is a rare rose that blooms at the sight of you ... " he offers, but of course we're both trying not to laugh now. Something as terrifying as love, and somehow I'm relaxed enough to laugh. "But that's not really me, right? If I was going to go with the honest version, it'd be more like this: my love is like a giant rampaging mutant from another dimension, intent on actually ingesting you in case you had any ideas about running away. — Charlotte Stein

Never fear. When this rose blooms, you will be with me again. — Maurice Sendak

A rose is but a rose, it blooms because it blooms; it thinks not of itself, nor asks if it is seen. — Angelus Silesius

To Hope

Oh, Hope! thou soother sweet of human woes!
How shall I lure thee to my haunts forlorn!
For me wilt thou renew the wither'd rose,
And clear my painful path of pointed thorn?
Ah come, sweet nymph! in smiles and softness drest,
Like the young hours that lead the tender year,
Enchantress! come, and charm my cares to rest: -
Alas! the flatterer flies, and will not hear!
A prey to fear, anxiety, and pain,
Must I a sad existence still deplore?
Lo! - the flowers fade, but all the thorns remain,
'For me the vernal garland blooms no more.'
Come then, 'pale Misery's love!' be thou my cure,
And I will bless thee, who, tho' slow, art sure. — Charlotte Turner Smith

Sonnet XVII
I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.
I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.
I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way than this:
where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep. — Pablo Neruda

Love is like the wild rose-briar; Friendship like the holly-tree. The holly is dark when the rose-briar blooms, but which will bloom most constantly? — Emily Bronte

Everything is complex and everything is simple. The rose has no why attached to it, it blooms because it blooms, how no thought of itself, or desire to be seen. What could be more complicated than a rose for someone who wants to understand it? What could be simpler for someone who wants nothing? The complexity of thinking, the simplicity of beholding. — Andre Comte-Sponville

The rose is without 'why'; it blooms simply because it blooms. It pays no attention to itself, nor does it ask whether anyone sees it. — Angelus Silesius

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.
I love you as the plant that never blooms,
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers.
Thanks to your love a certain fragrance,
risen darkly from the earth, lives darkly in my body.
I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where,
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride,
so I love you because I know no other way than this:
where "I" does not exist, nor "you,"
So close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
So close that your eyes close and I fall asleep. — Pablo Neruda

A rose that blooms in the desert has the privilege of being the only flower for miles. — Matshona Dhliwayo

The Rose is without an explanation; She blooms, because She blooms. — Angelus Silesius

The Rose does not preen herself to catch my eye. She blooms because she blooms. A saint is a saint until he knows he is one. — Anthony De Mello

When they carried Aurora over the border, she woke like a rose blooms. — Maggie Stiefvater