Clover And Love Quotes

A good friend is like a four-leaf clover. Hard to find and lucky to have.

Oak, granite, Lilies by the road, Remember me? I remember you. Clouds brushing Clover hills, Remember me? Sister, child, Grown tall, Remember me? I remember you.

Because I liked you better Than suits a man to say, It irked you, and I promised I'd throw the thought away. To put the world between us We parted stiff and dry: 'Farewell,' said you, 'forget me.' 'Fare well, I will,' said I. If e'er, where clover whitens The dead man's knoll, you pass, And no tall flower to meet you Starts in the trefoiled grass, Halt by the headstone shading The heart you have not stirred, And say the lad that loved you Was one that kept his word.

Somewhere someone thinks they love someone else exactly like I love you. Somewhere someone shakes from the ripple of a thousand butterflies inside a single stomach. Somewhere someone is packing their bags to see the world with someone else. Somewhere someone is reaching through the most terrifying few feet of space to hold the hand of someone else. Somewhere someone is watching someone else’s chest rise and fall with the breath of slumber. Somewhere someone is pouring ink like blood onto pages fighting to say the truth that has no words. Somewhere someone is waiting patient but exhausted to just be with someone else. Somewhere someone is opening their eyes to a sunrise in someplace they have never seen. Somewhere someone is pulling out the petals twisting the apple stem picking up the heads up penny rubbing the rabbits foot knocking on wood throwing coins into fountains hunting for the only clover with only 4 leaves skipping over the cracks snapping the wishbone crossing their fingers blowing out the candles sending dandelion seeds into the air ushering eyelashes off their thumbs finding the first star and waiting for 11:11 on their clock to spend their wishes on someone else. Somewhere someone is saying goodbye but somewhere someone else is saying hello. Somewhere someone is sharing their first or their last kiss with their or no longer their someone else. Somewhere someone is wondering if how they feel is how the other they feels about them and if both theys could ever become a they together. Somewhere someone is the decoder ring to all of the great mysteries of life for someone else. Somewhere someone is the treasure map. Somewhere someone thinks they love someone else exactly like I love you. Somewhere someone is wrong.

Maybe we just need to appreciate that many aspects of life— and the people we love—will always be a mystery. Because without mystery, there is no magic.

It frustrated me that society. was so determined to quantify grief, as if time could erase the potency of love.

I'm looking over a four-leaf clover that I overlooked before.

Bramble's lips were tight. Her fists still shook. "Take it back," she said. She gazed at the floor, but the words whipped. "We don't want the picture. We don't want your charity. Take it back!" Teddie drew himself up to his full, towering taffy height. "N-dash it-O!" he said. "It's not charity and I won't take it back! It's a gift! A gift, dash it all! Because I liked your mum! And I like your sisters! And you, Bramble! I love you!" The words echoed. Everyone's hands clasped over their mouths, and they stared at Lord Teddie, who panted but kept a tight chin up. Bramble's lips were still pursed. They were white. "Young man," said the King gently. "Your ship leaves soon?" Azalea guessed that, with the fiasco of everything, the King had annulled any arrangements between Bramble and Lord Teddie. Lord Teddie's entire taffylike form slumped. He turned to go, all bounciness dissolved. "Do you mean it?" Lord Teddie turned quickly. Bramble's lips remained tight, but her gaze was up, blazing yellow. "Gad, yes," said Lord Teddie. "I love you so much, my fingers hurt!" "Oh!" Bramble slapped he hand over her mouth and doubled over. "Oh-oh-oh-oh!" She shook. It was hard to tell if she was crying, or coughing, or ill. "Oh!" In a billow of skirts, Bramble leaped. It was a grand jete worthy of the Delchastrian prima ballerina. She landed right on Lord Teddie, who had no choice but to catch her, and threw her arms around his neck. Then, to everyone's shock, she pressed her lips full on his. "Oh...my," said Clover. No one seemed more surprised than Lord Teddie who stumbled back under Bramble's assault.

Grief is just love looking for a place to settle.

while a mother who miscarries might not have ever had the chance to hold that child, they had plenty. of time to love them, to dream and hope for them. And that means their grief is twofold - they're not just grieving the child, but the life they never got to experience. Who are we to tell anyone their pain isn't worthy?

... most of us are guilty of that with our loved ones. We get stuck in a routine and we look at them as we've always looked at them, without seeing them for the person they've become or the person they strive to be. What a terrible thing to do to someone you love.

Sissy had two great failings. She was a great lover and a great mother. She had so much of tenderness in her, so much of wanting to give of herself to whoever needed what she had, whether it was her money, her time, the clothes off her back, her pity, her understanding, her friendship or her companionship and love. She was mother to everything that came her way. She loved men, yes. She loved women too, and old people and especially children. How she loved children! She loved loved the down-and-outers. She wanted to make everybody happy. She had tried to seduce the good priest who heard her infrequent confessions because she felt sorry for him. She thought he was missing the greatest joy on earth by being committed to a life of celibacy. She loved all the scratching curs on the street and wept for the gaunt scavenging cats who slunk around Brooklyn corners with their sides swollen looking for a hole in which they might bring forth their young. She loved the sooty sparrows and thought that the very grass that grew in the lots was beautiful. She picked bouquets of white clover in the lots believing they were the most beautiful flowers God ever made...Yes, she listened to everybody's troubles but no one listened to hers. But that was right because Sissy was a giver and never a taker.

You’d think the FBI could’ve come up with something a little better than Clover when they christened me last year. Clovers are cute. I take umbrage at being cute. I’m a god-damned criminal mastermind. Criminal masterminds are not cute. Except Loki. Shit, Loki is cute as hell.

Clover City is the type of place you leave. It's love that either sucks you in or pushes you away. There are only a few who really make it out and stay out, while the rest of us drink, procreate, and go to church, and that seems to be enough to keep us afloat.

What parents need to teach their children is not how to keep from falling down but rather to understand that, no matter how many times they fall down, they can always get up again! Right! ...It's like that proverb! The one about the lion pushing his own cubs over the cliff to make them tough... Hey! I got it, Mayama!! Next time you see Yamada, drag her up to the roof and throw her over! That's not tough love, that's homicide!

There was nothing left for me to do, but go. Though the things of the world were strong with me still. Such as, for example: a gaggle of children trudging through a side-blown December flurry; a friendly match-share beneath some collision-titled streetlight; a frozen clock, a bird visited within its high tower; cold water from a tin jug; towering off one’s clinging shirt post-June rain. Pearls, rags, buttons, rug-tuft, beer-froth. Someone’s kind wishes for you; someone remembering to write; someone noticing that you are not at all at ease. A bloody ross death-red on a platter; a headgetop under-hand as you flee late to some chalk-and-woodfire-smelling schoolhouse. Geese above, clover below, the sound of one’s own breath when winded. The way a moistness in the eye will blur a field of stars; the sore place on the shoulder a resting toboggan makes; writing one’s beloved’s name upon a frosted window with a gloved finger. Tying a shoe; tying a knot on a package; a mouth on yours; a hand on yours; the ending of the day; the beginning of the day; the feeling that there will always be a day ahead. Goodbye, I must now say goodbye to all of it. Loon-call in the dark; calf-cramp in the spring; neck-rub in the parlour; milk-sip at end of day. Some brandy-legged dog proudly back-ploughs the grass to cover its modest shit; a cloud-mass down-valley breaks apart over the course of a brandy-deepened hour; louvered blinds yield dusty beneath your dragging finger, and it is nearly noon and you must decide; you have seen what you have seen, and it has wounded you, and it seems you have only one choice left. Blood-stained porcelain bowl wobbles face down on wood floor; orange peel not at all stirred by disbelieving last breath there among that fine summer dust-layer, fatal knife set down in pass-panic on familiar wobbly banister, later dropped (thrown) by Mother (dear Mother) (heartsick) into the slow-flowing, chocolate-brown Potomac. None of it was real; nothing was real. Everything was real; inconceivably real, infinitely dear. These and all things started as nothing, latent within a vast energy-broth, but then we named them, and loved them, and in this way, brought them forth. And now we must lose them. I send this out to you, dear friends, before I go, in this instantaneous thought-burst, from a place where time slows and then stops and we may live forever in a single instant. Goodbye goodbye good-

Because I liked you better than it suits a girl to say, It irked you and I promised to throw the thought away To put the world between us, we parted stiff and dry 'Goodbye' and you: 'Forget me'. 'No fear I will' said I. Now here where clover whitens The dead man's knoll you pass And now tall flower to meet you Starts in the trefoiled grass Halt by the headstone naming the heart no longer stirred And say the girl that loved you Was one who kept her word.

Along the field as we came by A year ago, my love and I, The aspen over stile and stone Was talking to itself alone. 'Oh who are these that kiss and pass? A country lover and his lass; Two lovers looking to be wed; And time shall put them both to bed, But she shall lie with earth above, And he beside another love.' And sure enough beneath the tree There walks another love with me, And overhead the aspen heaves Its rainy-sounding silver leaves; And I spell nothing in their stir, But now perhaps they speak to her, And plain for her to understand They talk about a time at hand When I shall sleep with clover clad, And she beside another lad.

I had wanted to call him. There were so many things I wanted to talk to him about. And that I wanted to ask him about. But... I kind of hated myself... for feeling that way. Because... thinking about Nomiya-san... felt like a betrayal of myself, of everything I'd felt for the past six years. It made my feelings for Mayama seem like a lie. Other people might think it's pathetic. That I'm pathetic. But my feelings for Mayama... My love for him... Was the only thing I had. It was my treasure. My cold, bright treasure. Dear God. I never wanted to be saved. I wanted to stay miserably in love with Mayama forever. I wanted to stay in love with him for ten years, twenty years, so he would know just how strong my love was. ...Even though I knew that would be totally meaningless.

The sad truth is, men love to follow a man other men fear,” said Clover. “Makes them feel fearsome, too. We tell the odd fond story of the good men. The straight edges. Your Rudd Threetrees, your Dogmen. But it’s the butchers men love to sing of. The burners and the blood-spillers. Your Cracknut Whirruns and your Black Dows. Your Bloody-Nines. Men don’t dream of doing the right thing, but of ripping what they want from the world with their strength and their will.

He smelled the odor of the pine boughs under him, the piney smell of the crushed needles and the sharper odor of the resinous sap from the cut limbs. ... This is the smell I love. This and fresh-cut clover, the crushed sage as you ride after cattle, wood-smoke and the burning leaves of autumn. That must be the odor of nostalgia, the smell of the smoke from the piles of raked leaves burning in the streets in the fall in Missoula. Which would you rather smell? Sweet grass the Indians used in their baskets? Smoked leather? The odor of the ground in the spring after rain? The smell of the sea as you walk through the gorse on a headland in Galicia? Or the wind from the land as you come in toward Cuba in the dark? That was the odor of cactus flowers, mimosa and the sea-grape shrubs. Or would you rather smell frying bacon in the morning when you are hungry? Or coffee in the morning? Or a Jonathan apple as you bit into it? Or a cider mill in the grinding, or bread fresh from the oven?

I never realized how much I loved them until I couldn't tell them...

As a parting gift, he gave Harold the key chain from his house keys, the ones that opened the gate to Hamilton Arms: it was a clover, a charm for luck. Its stem was a little drawer, into which, Harold later found, George had put a love note. Harold kept the clover for the rest of his life.

Running was Clover's favorite thing to do, after reading. She loved the way the cement felt hard and unforgiving under her feet until she reached the park and the dirt path that wound its way alongside the Truckee River. She liked the wind in her face and how it smelled like water. And the way Mango ran beside her, keeping her company. But most of all she liked the way the steady pace untangled her thoughts.

What most people don’t consider is that death is often random and cruel. It doesn’t care if you’ve been kind all your life. Or if you’ve eaten healthily, exercised often, and always worn a seat belt or a helmet. It doesn’t care that a loved one left behind might spend the rest of their lives replaying events in their head, tormented by the words “if only.” People tell themselves they’ve got plenty of time, until they’re at the mercy of a careless action—a driver on their cellphone, a neighbor who left a candle burning. And by then, it’s too late.

I have a rule: Anything that can be done privately does not need to be performed publicly. It’s why I love the gays but I hate their parades. Actually, I hate all parades. Marching to celebrate something you’re born as seems silly. (As I write this, St. Patrick’s Day is in full bore in Midtown. It’s delightful how celebrating a heritage requires you to pick fights with strangers and then pee in a parking garage. The upside—the sea of clover-painted drunks moving in unison—might be the only green energy I’ve ever seen work.) And what’s the point of a parade anyway? A bunch of yahoos who share some affinity, walking in one direction? Who decided this was entertainment? For previous generations, this was called a migration, or more often, refugees fleeing for their lives

love is like a song a friend is like a four leaf clover it brings you luck

Emmeline Austin, love of my life, would you do me the great honor of wearing my ring on your finger? Of staying my wife?” I nodded

You will become people you can’t even fathom yet. I wish I could be here to meet every version of you, Rosie. I know I would love each one more than the last

Nobody ever understands love—anyone who says they do is lying or in denial. We’re all just working it out as we go.

I love you, Emmy. Always.

What was it like to feel a love so strong that it still lingered with you more than sixty years later?

Love is kind of like scratching a mosquito bite - painful and euphoric at the same time. You've just got to get out of your head and into your heart.

Love cares for no one. The bees never seem to have enough of clover, The goats never seem to have enough of leaves, The meadows never enough of freshening water; Love never seems to have enough of tears.

Wild Peaches" When the world turns completely upside down You say we’ll emigrate to the Eastern Shore Aboard a river-boat from Baltimore; We’ll live among wild peach trees, miles from town, You’ll wear a coonskin cap, and I a gown Homespun, dyed butternut’s dark gold color. Lost, like your lotus-eating ancestor, We’ll swim in milk and honey till we drown. The winter will be short, the summer long, The autumn amber-hued, sunny and hot, Tasting of cider and of scuppernong; All seasons sweet, but autumn best of all. The squirrels in their silver fur will fall Like falling leaves, like fruit, before your shot. 2 The autumn frosts will lie upon the grass Like bloom on grapes of purple-brown and gold. The misted early mornings will be cold; The little puddles will be roofed with glass. The sun, which burns from copper into brass, Melts these at noon, and makes the boys unfold Their knitted mufflers; full as they can hold Fat pockets dribble chestnuts as they pass. Peaches grow wild, and pigs can live in clover; A barrel of salted herrings lasts a year; The spring begins before the winter’s over. By February you may find the skins Of garter snakes and water moccasins Dwindled and harsh, dead-white and cloudy-clear. 3 When April pours the colors of a shell Upon the hills, when every little creek Is shot with silver from the Chesapeake In shoals new-minted by the ocean swell, When strawberries go begging, and the sleek Blue plums lie open to the blackbird’s beak, We shall live well — we shall live very well. The months between the cherries and the peaches Are brimming cornucopias which spill Fruits red and purple, sombre-bloomed and black; Then, down rich fields and frosty river beaches We’ll trample bright persimmons, while you kill Bronze partridge, speckled quail, and canvasback. 4 Down to the Puritan marrow of my bones There’s something in this richness that I hate. I love the look, austere, immaculate, Of landscapes drawn in pearly monotones. There’s something in my very blood that owns Bare hills, cold silver on a sky of slate, A thread of water, churned to milky spate Streaming through slanted pastures fenced with stones. I love those skies, thin blue or snowy gray, Those fields sparse-planted, rendering meagre sheaves; That spring, briefer than apple-blossom’s breath, Summer, so much too beautiful to stay, Swift autumn, like a bonfire of leaves, And sleepy winter, like the sleep of death.

Thick boughs of white oak shaded the ground, sheltering riches of sage, red clover, sometimes mushrooms. Harriet breathed in the scents of the fecund earth as she crouched beside a patch of nettles to begin her morning's work. It was a good day for her labors. She found a lovely bit of mugwort beside the nettles, and deeper in the woods she spotted burdock, which could be elusive. There was amaranth, too, the herb the shepherds called pigweed.

An Adieu" Sorrow, quit me for a while! Wintry days are over; Hope again, with April smile, Violets sows and clover. Pleasure follows in her path, Love itself flies after, And the brook a music hath Sweet as childhood’s laughter. Not a bird upon the bough Can repress its rapture, Not a bud that blossoms now But doth beauty capture. Sorrow, thou art Winter’s mate, Spring cannot regret thee; Yet, ah, yet—my friend of late— I shall not forget thee!

Clover City is the kind of place you leave. It's love that either sucks you in or pushes you away. There are only a few who really make it out and stay out, while the rest of us drink, procreate, and go to church, and that seems enough to keep us afloat.

What makes a shamrock so special anyway?" One leaf for love, one leaf for hope, one leaf for faith, and one leaf for luck. The fourth leaf is a teeny bit smaller than the other three. That's how you know it's real... ...people have looked to clovers to ward off evil spirits.

THE SHEEPDOGS Most humans truly are like sheep Wanting nothing more than peace to keep To graze, grow fat and raise their young, Sweet taste of clover on the tongue. Their lives serene upon Life’s farm, They sense no threat nor fear no harm. On verdant meadows, they forage free With naught to fear, with naught to flee. They pay their sheepdogs little heed For there is no threat; there is no need. To the flock, sheepdog’s are mysteries, Roaming watchful round the peripheries. These fang-toothed creatures bark, they roar With the fetid reek of the carnivore, Too like the wolf of legends told, To be amongst our docile fold. Who needs sheepdogs? What good are they? They have no use, not in this day. Lock them away, out of our sight We have no need of their fierce might. But sudden in their midst a beast Has come to kill, has come to feast The wolves attack; they give no warning Upon that calm September morning They slash and kill with frenzied glee Their passive helpless enemy Who had no clue the wolves were there Far roaming from their Eastern lair. Then from the carnage, from the rout, Comes the cry, “Turn the sheepdogs out!” Thus is our nature but too our plight To keep our dogs on leashes tight And live a life of illusive bliss Hearing not the beast, his growl, his hiss. Until he has us by the throat, We pay no heed; we take no note. Not until he strikes us at our core Will we unleash the Dogs of War Only having felt the wolf pack’s wrath Do we loose the sheepdogs on its path. And the wolves will learn what we’ve shown before; We love our sheep, we Dogs of War. Russ Vaughn 2d Bn, 327th Parachute Infantry Regiment 101st Airborne Division Vietnam 65-66

I wish I’d told them how much I love them. Sometimes people were referring to parents or spouses, other times it was friends. In almost every case, it was because they’d been so busy in their lives that they took their loved ones for granted. Or they just never knew how to find the right words.

A clover that sprouts four leaves, rather than three, is a mutation and is considered 'lucky' according to Irish mythology. Why? According to Celtic lore, each leaf of clover represents something special. One leaf represents faith, one hope, one love and, and , if a fourth leaf is present, that's luck.

She reached up and rubbed the four-leaf clover charm, saying a quick prayer for faith, hope, love, and luck. Faith that everything would turn out, hope that what was lost could be restored, gratitude that she had found the love of the woman who had born her, and at the end she tacked on a heartfelt request for a little bit of luck to smooth out these next uncertain, scary steps.

Hair" There is great mystery, Simone, In the forest of your hair. It smells of hay, and of the stone Cattle have been lying on; Of timber, and of new-baked bread Brought to be one’s breakfast fare; And of the flowers that have grown Along a wall abandonèd; Of leather and of winnowed grain; Of briers and ivy washed by rain; You smell of rushes and of ferns Reaped when day to evening turns; You smell of withering grasses red Whose seed is under hedges shed; You smell of nettles and of broom; Of milk, and fields in clover-bloom; You smell of nuts, and fruits that one Gathers in the ripe season; And of the willow and the lime Covered in their flowering time; You smell of honey, of desire, You smell of air the noon makes shiver: You smell of earth and of the river; You smell of love, you smell of fire. There is great mystery, Simone, In the forest of your hair. Contemporary French Poetry, edited by Jethro Bithell (Wentworth Press March 4th 2019) reply | edit | delete | flag *

I am a runner. That’s what I do. That’s who I am. Running is all I know, or want, or care about. It was a race around the soccer field in third grade that swept me into a real love of running. Breathing the sweet smell of spring grass. Sailing over dots of blooming clover. Beating all the boys. After that, I couldn’t stop. I ran everywhere. Raced everyone. I loved the wind across my cheeks, through my hair. Running aired out my soul. It made me feel alive. And now? I’m stuck in this bed, knowing I’ll never run again.

I looked up at the moon and stars through the glass roof above and gasped at the stunning sight, like a mural painted by a great artist. No wonder Lady Anna had loved this place. I walked to the orchids and plucked a weed from a small terra-cotta pot that held a speckled pink and white flower. "There you are, beautiful," I whispered, releasing a patch of clover roots from the bark near the orchid's stem. "Is that better?" In the quiet of the night, I could almost hear the flower sigh. I walked to the water spigot and filled a green watering can to the brim, then sprinkled the flower and her comrades. I marveled at how the droplets sparkled in the moonlight.

This is what we call a shamrock. It has three leaves. Do you know what it represents?" "Luck? Amelia answered. Lee smiled. "That's what everyone says." Rick shrugged. "Well, I know it's Ireland's emblem." Lee shook his head and said earnestly, "It's much more than that. It represents our religion... who we are. When St. Patrick was trying to teach Christianity here in Ireland, he used this shamrock as an example." Lee pointed to each leaf and said, "This is the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost...." Rick still held the clover in his hand. He looked at it and twirled it between his fingers as he said, "I'm calling this the Shamrock Case from now on. I love what it represents.

When she...walked down the long hill that sloped to the Lake of Shining Waters it was past sunset and all Avonlea lay before her in a dreamlike afterlight- 'a haunt of ancient peace'. There was a freshness in the air as of a wind that had blown over honeysweet fields of clover. Home lights twinkled out here and there among the homestead trees. Beyond lay the sea, misty and purple, with its haunting, unceasing murmur. The west was a glory of soft mingled hues, and the pond reflected them all in still softer shadings. The beauty of it all thrilled Anne's heart, and she gratefully opened the gates of her soul to it. 'Dear old world,' she murmured, 'you are very lovely, and I am glad to be alive in you.

Georgia's fingers drifted to the charm at her throat, the four worn little clover leaves. She rubbed the metal edges, sending a prayer of gratitude heavenward. Faith, hope, love, and luck--- the recipe for a charmed life. Once Georgia had thought she could make it happen on her own by planning and striving, by attaining concrete measures of success. Now she saw how wrong she had been. The real recipe for a charmed life was simple. Not easy, but simple. To do the work that filled her with wonder and delight. To walk lightly through the world, giving generously to those around her. To love all in her care as best she could. That's what she had been seeking all along. And Georgia found that now her life, which had once seemed so bitter, tasted so very sweet indeed.

there is nothing generic about a human life. When I was little, to get to my bus stop, I had to cross a field that had so much snow my parents fitted me with ski pants and knee-high thermal boots that were toasty to forty degrees below zero. I am excellent in the stern of a canoe, but I never got the hang of riding a bike with no hands. I have seen the northern lights because my parents always woke up the whole house when the night sky was painted with color. I love the smell of clover and chamomile because my sister and I used to pick both on the way home from swimming lessons. I spent weeks of my childhood riding around on my bike saving drowning worms after a heavy rain. My hair is my favorite feature even though it’s too heavy for most ponytails, and I still can’t parallel park. There is no life in general. Each day has been a collection of trivial details—little intimacies and jokes and screw-ups and realizations.

On Floriography This poem explores the ancient practice of floriography, the coded language of flowers, as a way to express human love through the use of fragrance, colors, and vivid symbolism. By elucidating the phenomenon of florescence alongside the art of floral arrangement, the poem encourages readers to extract poetry and beauty out of a dystopic world. If you often find yourself at a loss for words or don’t know what to say to those you love, just extract poetry out of poverty, this dystopia of civilization rendered fragrant, blossoming onto star-blue fields of loosestrife, heady spools of spike lavender, of edible clover beckoning to say without bruising a jot of dog’s tooth violet, a nib of larkspur notes, or the day’s perfumed reports of indigo in the gloaming— what to say to those whom you love in this world? Use floriography, or as the flower-sellers put it, Say it with flowers. —Indigo, larkspur, star-blue, my dear.

I’m sorry we’re not landing on Felimath,” said Lucy. “I’d like to walk there again. It was so lonely--a nice kind of loneliness, and all grass and clover and soft sea air.” “I’d love to stretch my legs too,” said Caspian. “I tell you what. Why shouldn’t we go ashore in the boat and send it back, and then we could walk across Felimath and let the Dawn Treader pick us up on the other side?” If Caspian had been as experienced then as he became later on in this voyage he would not have made this suggestion; but at the moment it seemed an excellent one. “Oh do let’s,” said Lucy. “You’ll come, will you?” said Caspian to Eustace, who had come on deck with his hand bandaged. “Anything to get off this blasted boat,” said Eustace. “Blasted?” said Drinian. “How do you mean?” “In a civilized country like where I come from,” said Eustace, “the ships are so big that when you’re inside you wouldn’t know you were at sea at all.” “In that case you might just as well stay ashore,” said Caspian.

I’m sure we can manage to tolerate each other’s company for one meal.” “I won’t say anything about farming. We can discuss other subjects. I have a vast and complex array of interests.” “Such as?” Mr. Ravenel considered that. “Never mind, I don’t have a vast array of interests. But I feel like the kind of man who does.” Amused despite herself, Phoebe smiled reluctantly. “Aside from my children, I have no interests.” “Thank God. I hate stimulating conversation. My mind isn’t deep enough to float a straw.” Phoebe did enjoy a man with a sense of humor. Perhaps this dinner wouldn’t be as dreadful as she’d thought. “You’ll be glad to hear, then, that I haven’t read a book in months.” “I haven’t gone to a classical music concert in years,” he said. “Too many moments of ‘clap here, not there.’ It makes me nervous.” “I’m afraid we can’t discuss art, either. I find symbolism exhausting.” “Then I assume you don’t like poetry.” “No . . . unless it rhymes.” “I happen to write poetry,” Ravenel said gravely. Heaven help me, Phoebe thought, the momentary fun vanishing. Years ago, when she’d first entered society, it had seemed as if every young man she met at a ball or dinner was an amateur poet. They had insisted on quoting their own poems, filled with bombast about starlight and dewdrops and lost love, in the hopes of impressing her with how sensitive they were. Apparently, the fad had not ended yet. “Do you?” she asked without enthusiasm, praying silently that he wouldn’t offer to recite any of it. “Yes. Shall I recite a line or two?” Repressing a sigh, Phoebe shaped her mouth into a polite curve. “By all means.” “It’s from an unfinished work.” Looking solemn, Mr. Ravenel began, “There once was a young man named Bruce . . . whose trousers were always too loose.” Phoebe willed herself not to encourage him by laughing. She heard a quiet cough of amusement behind her and deduced that one of the footmen had overheard. “Mr. Ravenel,” she asked, “have you forgotten this is a formal dinner?” His eyes glinted with mischief. “Help me with the next line.” “Absolutely not.” “I dare you.” Phoebe ignored him, meticulously spreading her napkin over her lap. “I double dare you,” he persisted. “Really, you are the most . . . oh, very well.” Phoebe took a sip of water while mulling over words. After setting down the glass, she said, “One day he bent over, while picking a clover.” Ravenel absently fingered the stem of an empty crystal goblet. After a moment, he said triumphantly, “. . . and a bee stung him on the caboose.” Phoebe almost choked on a laugh. “Could we at least pretend to be dignified?” she begged. “But it’s going to be such a long dinner.

I love tattoos on women,” said Henry. “Although the last one I saw was on Sally Mae, a friend of mine at the nursing home. Her tattoo was supposed to be a clover-leaf, but damn if it didn’t look more like a beanstalk. Course, the thing must have grown over fifty years.” Tiny laughed and started the engine. Paige rubbed her forehead. “God, I’m not going to even ask where that was located.

Love the tip about putting safflower seed in your birdfeeder to keep the squirrels away.

A camomile rinse is excellent for blond hair. Use three or four tablespoons of dried flowers to a pint of water. Boil twenty to thirty minutes, straining when cool. Shampoo the hair before using, since it must be free of oil. Pour rinse over the hair several times and do not rinse with clear water after using. It will leave the hair smelling like sweet clover.

nothing that is an experience is wasted; whether it’s a good experience or a bad one, it shapes who you become.

Tessa Dahl A daughter of famed British novelist Roald Dahl, Tessa Dahl was a good friend of Diana’s and her colleague at several successful charities. A prolific writer and editor, Tessa is a regular contributor to many important British newspapers and magazines, including the Sunday Times, the Daily Mail, the Telegraph, Vogue and the Tatler. The only part that marred the night was, typically, my dad, Roald Dahl, who left at the interval. I was devastated, but that was his modus operandi. I wanted him to see me in the Royal Box. I fear most of the post-party was spent with me on the phone crying to him, after Diana had left and we had done the royal lineup. Gosh, she was always so good at that. Talk about doing her homework. Every single performer, she had time for, even knowing a little bit about each one. We didn’t see each other again until Bruce Oldfield’s ball. Diana had come with Prince Charles and looked really miserable. Beautiful, in a gold crown (with Joan Collins trying to outdo her--good luck, Joan), but still, she had a new aura of hopelessness. Although she did dance with Bruce to KC and the Sunshine Band’s “That’s the Way I Like It.” We stopped to talk. “How’s Daisy?” she asked kindly. She obviously knew that I had been having my baby down the hall in the same hospital and at the same time as she had had Prince Harry. “Actually, it’s a different bovine name. She’s called Clover.” I was touched that she had remembered that we had had our babies around the same time and that my little girl did have a good old-fashioned cow’s name. I asked, “Wasn’t it fun at the Lindo? I do love having babies.” “I’m afraid I find it rather disgusting,” she revealed. This, of course, was the famous time when Prince Charles had been so disparaging about Harry’s being a redhead.

When the children returned to the studio, the STUDIO CLOSED sign was still on the door. This didn’t stop the Aldens. “Hi, Hilda! It’s the Aldens,” Jessie yelled as she rapped on the window. Hilda whirled around, startled to see four pairs of eyes staring at her. She opened the door slightly. “What are you doing here? My studio is closed right now.” Violet looked past Hilda. “Oh, so you have the Clover Dodge statue,” she said before the young woman could block her view. “Are you fixing it? I’d love to see how.” Hilda stared at Violet. “I’m not here to teach art classes, Violet. I’m here to…well, I haven’t time to explain.” Henry, who was taller than Hilda, peered right over her shoulder. “Are you fixing the arm from the angel statue, too? Charlotte will be glad you got started on that.” Hilda studied the Aldens’ faces. “What do you mean? William was the one who got me working on the angel statue, not Charlotte. He told me she left most of the decisions up to him.” Hilda pushed the door to keep the children back. “I really must get back to my work. I’ll see you at Skeleton Point later this afternoon.” The Aldens had a lot more to say, but they never got the chance. After she slammed the door, Hilda walked over to the windows and pulled the shade down one by one. The Mystery at Skeleton Point

CLOVER: I take hold of my daughter, knowing her life may be complicated, not seem fair, and often a cruel joke. I can’t protect her from self-doubt and denial, things all of us inevitably face one way or another––but I can make sure she knows her father and I think we’re the luckiest people in the world to have her. And I think that might be enough. In fact, I think that might be everything.

INSIDE MY EMBRACE   Pulling her closer to me as she sits inside of my embrace beneath the fragrant cool of morning, I warm her legs and arms as her eyes shine like dew over morning clovers, eager to bear the weight of this weary traveler. I kiss her in a way that longs for her love to be made. Caressing her underneath her neck and face I give my soul’s kiss to the side of her face, kissing her again above the eyes, sliding down the bridge of her nose as I find her lips once more.   I calm her growing anxiousness as I reach my hand over her face, she taking my hand to warm her face with. I reach for her lips tasting the sweet nectar from her body and spirit as she takes her time loving me beneath the great red cedar tree that stands furthest from the house. She again kisses me gently having known from the day that we first kissed that I could never get enough of her love. I watch as she lays peacefully in my arms without any disturbance of any kind as a dark slate grey and rifle green flitter above from the leaves of a large alder tree. Seeing her as she is now I am reminded of how still the soul can be when looking at a painting. I now feel as if all of the simple pleasures in life have been granted to me as I watch her wrapped inside of my embrace.

No, I’m serious. I wish you were getting the man of your dreams. I wish he was standing here, getting to see you look like you do, knowing how lucky he is to have you in his life. I wish he was going to stand in front of a group of witnesses and declare how much he loves you and declare himself yours, and you his. I wish he was whisking you away tonight to some lonely cottage on a tropical island where he would show you in mind-numbing passion everything he had proclaimed in words. I wish he’d help you fight all your demons, to build your dreams together, to cherish and love you as you deserve and need to be loved. And to protect you, always protect you. I wish you had a normal life, had a heap load of kids, if that’s what you want, or a puppy named Clover if you don’t. But most of all...” Jerry paused and smacked his palate. “I wish I could be that man.

Always been lean.” “Oh, me too.” And he patted his belly. “The body of a hero lies just below this carefully nurtured layer of fat.” She raised a brow. Clover loved to see things done well, and she’d a hell of a brow-raise, did Wonderful. “And what could possibly drag your fat this close to the fighting?” “Black Calder. He tells me you need help.” “That I’ll not deny. When does it get here?

slow, rich roll of his Caribbean accent. Some of his ‘t’s were closer to ‘d’, as was his ‘th’. It was a voice that sent a tiny shiver down her spine. She was surprised at how hypnotic she found it, but knew she wanted to hear more. ‘Come on.’ Dot started to trot along the pavement. Sol tried to keep up. ‘You got quite a wiggle there, girl.’ Dot glanced to her right and smiled again, unaware that she had ‘quite a wiggle’. She felt a bubble of happiness swell inside her. ‘Where are we going? Selfridges?’ ‘Maybe, eventually, but I thought we could get a coffee first. It’ll warm you up and before I introduce you to people I work with, I want to get to know you a bit.’ ‘That sounds like you’re giving me an

I had her, if only for a little while. We kissed. We laughed. I felt love radiating through her. I tear a handful of clovers from the ground and squeeze them together, the green juices staining my fingers. It makes me so anxious, thinking of how fragile every relationship is. How someone can be right there with you one minute and then gone the next. Or dead. I shudder.

Grief, I’d come to realize, was like dust. When you’re in the thick of a dust storm, you’re completely disoriented by the onslaught, struggling to see or breathe. But as the force recedes, and you slowly find your bearings and see a path forward, the dust begins to settle into the crevices. And it will never disappear completely— as the years pass, you’ll find it in unexpected places at unexpected moments. Grief is just love looking for a place to settle.

Before I ever took a photo of anyone, I’d take the time to get to know them—asking them about their childhood dreams, their cherished memories, the people they loved most,” Claudia said. “And then, as they were talking, I’d start clicking the shutter.

Grief, I’d come to realize, was like dust. When you’re in the thick of a dust storm, you’re completely disoriented by the onslaught, struggling to see or breathe. But as the force recedes, and you slowly find your bearings and see a path forward, the dust begins to settle into the crevices. And it will never disappear completely—as the years pass, you’ll find it in unexpected places at unexpected moments. Grief is just love looking for a place to settle.

As Far I can I can tell, "I Love You" was one of the hardest words in the English Language. Not for its pronunciation, but for the weight it carried.

Love is kind of like scratching a mosquito bite - painful and euphoric at the same time.

I'd learned the hard way that when people ask you how you're doing after a loved one's death, they don't really want to know. They want to hear that you've moved on because they can't stand to look at your pain. And when I didn't move on, the emails gradually trickled to nothing.

Our grief could coexist. I loved that he'd kept his ring, even when people suggested it was time he took it off. It frustrated me that society was so determined to quantify grief, as if time could erase the potency of love. Or, on the other hand, how it dictated that grief for someone you knew fleetingly should be equally fleeting.

I was loyal to both", said Clover. "I was just more loyal to me. Truth is, men love to blab abour loyalty till it might trap 'em on the losing side. Then there's a chorus o' silence on the issue. So I consider reasonably loyal to be a bit more loyal than most, and a lot more honest than most. It's a fool who makes folk choose too often between loyalty and good sense.

ago so Dad had these workmen come to retile it. They put the ladder up and forgot to take it away again. Lots of green moss has grown back on the roof now, which makes it very soft and comfortable, like a green carpet. I like to sit with my legs swinging down, peering out over next-door’s garden. Not number four next door, where Cecy lives. I mean number eight the other side of us – the sad house. Old Mrs Burton lives there. At least I think she does. No one’s seen her for years and years. She used to be this perfectly ordinary old lady when Mr Burton was still around. They invited Clover and me in for tea several times, after Mum died. We didn’t really like to go, because we didn’t know what to say to them and there was nothing very much to do. Mrs Burton had a collection of little china pots with painted lids and she let us look at each one, but we weren’t allowed to touch because they were precious and we were only little. The tea was very strange too. We had to drink out of cups on saucers, whereas we were used to mugs, so we found it difficult. Then there was a plate of thin bread and butter to eat. Not even any jam. Just a piece of bread and butter. Mrs Burton said if we ate it all up we would be allowed cakes. So we chewed valiantly and then Mr Burton went into the kitchen and came back with a small plate of little iced cakes. He called them fancies. There were two yellow and two pink. I chose yellow and Mrs Burton and Mr Burton took the pink ones. I saw Clover’s face. I knew just how much she wanted a pink one too. She didn’t eat her yellow one properly; she just bit all the icing off the top and licked the little bit of cream inside. Mr and Mrs Burton weren’t cross with her. They shook their heads and patted her curls and said she was a lovely little girlie. ‘A real Goldilocks,’ said Mr Burton. They

Ah, such lovely, rustic beauty, like that of a simple white clover." ? "It may be that I was born to meet you here today, my sweet. Would you care to join me at my auberge so we may chat the night away?" "Eh? Umm... I-I...

Isn’t that the damn point of love? To find someone who can see past the bullshit, beyond the darkness, farther than all the fucked-up corners of our lives in an effort to find something worth embracing?

What would have happened, I wondered, if Clover and Jotter never ran the river—if they had listened to the critics and doomsayers, or to their own doubts? They brought knowledge, energy, and passion to their botanical work, but also a new perspective. Before them, men had gone down the Colorado to sketch dams, plot railroads, dig gold, and daydream little Swiss chalets stuck up on the cliffs. They saw the river for what it could be, harnessed for human use. Clover and Jotter saw it as it was, a living system made up of flower, leaf, and thorn, lovely in its fierceness, worthy of study for its own sake. They knew every saltbush twig and stickery cactus was, in its own way, as much a marvel as Boulder Dam—shaped to survive against all the odds. In the United States, half of all bachelor’s degrees in science, engineering, and mathematics go to women, yet these women go on to earn only 74 percent of a man’s salary in those fields. A recent study found that it will be another two decades before women and men publish papers at equal rates in the field of botany, a field traditionally welcoming to women. It may take four decades for chemistry, and three centuries for physics. Stereotypes linger of scientists as white-coated, wild-haired men, and they limit the ways in which young people envision their futures. In a famous, oft-replicated study, 70 percent of six-year-old girls, asked to draw a picture of a scientist, draw a woman, but only 25 percent do so at the age of sixteen.

Instinctively, her fingers drifted to the four-leaf clover charm on the delicate chain at her throat, and she rubbed the little leaves. Long ago, her mother had told her that the four leaflets on the clover stood for faith, hope, love, and luck. "Those four elements are the recipe for a charmed life, Georgia May," her mother had promised her.

You were the seed and the leaf and the fruit. You were the earth and you were the root. You were the song in the echoing dark. You were not the snake. You were never the rock. You were the needle and bark, and you were the river. You were not winter. You were fresh water. You were not locked door or slammed door or rattle. You were not metal. You were not empty bottle. You were treetop and grassland and night sky and star. Oh you were warm, you were rain, you were air. You were the oak leaf and honey and clover and you were forest and you were my mother. You were the shore where no crocodiles are. You were not wire. You were not wire. - Monkey Writes a Poem About His Mother

But perhaps that's the point. Do we actually need to understand the world and all its patterns? You can find meaning in anything if you look hard enough; if you want to believe that everything happens for a reason. But if we completely understood one another, if every event made sense, none of us would ever learn or grow. Our days might be pleasant, but prosaic. So maybe we just need to appreciate that many aspects of life—and the people we love—will always be a mystery. Because without mystery, there is no magic. And instead of constantly asking ourselves the question of why we're here, maybe we should be savoring a simpler truth: We are here.

The sad truth is, men love to follow a man other men fear,” said Clover. “Makes them feel fearsome, too.

I loved the idea of preparing someone for a journey rather than simply saying goodbye.

closure was just as valuable for the living. Being denied the chance to say goodbye to a loved one left stubborn emotional scars.

I never realized how much I loved them until I couldn’t tell them …

Messages of love always make their way through, even when someone is unconscious.” Unfortunately, it was often the first time that love was ever expressed.

There are few rawer expressions of vulnerability than I love you.

But as far as I could tell, I love you was one of the hardest things to say in the English language. Not for its pronunciation (synecdoche held that title, in my opinion), but for the weight it carried.

loving someone inevitably also meant one day losing them—if not by rejection or betrayal, then most certainly by death. At least when you’re alone, there’s no risk of getting hurt. After all, you can’t lose something you don’t have.

I’d learned the hard way that when people ask you how you’re doing after a loved one’s death, they don’t really want to know. They want to hear that you’ve moved on because they can’t stand to look at your pain.

while a mother who miscarries might not have ever had the chance to hold that child, they had plenty of time to love them, to dream and hope for them. And that means their grief is twofold—they’re not just grieving the child, but the life they never got to experience. Who are we to tell anyone their pain isn’t worthy?

The misty sun came through the window and cast a yellow halo around her, making her eyes glow like clover. Lorenzo yearned to comfort her, but he felt lately that it was his presence over the years that helped put her in her state. She was an attractive, bright, and funny girl who should have been living a bold teenage life, but she existed with one foot in the living world and one in the grave. What he hadn’t known when he fell in love with her as a stepbrother would adopt a new, much younger sister, was that when ghosts touched a person directly, it changed them and separated them from their society. Eleni had seen things regular people couldn’t and experienced things that defied their reality and religious beliefs, and, frankly, terrified them to a point where they shunned her by reflex. In a way, her relationship with the dead made her a ghost herself, quiet, looming on the outskirts, largely unseen.

you are infinitely loved.

They say that you were the love of his life—that no one ever came close to you.

So maybe we just need to appreciate that many aspects of life—and the people we love—will always be a mystery. Because without mystery, there is no magic. And instead of constantly asking ourselves the question of why we’re here, maybe we should be savoring a simpler truth: We are here.

Selfish as it sounds,” Claudia said, “I mostly regret putting the needs of others ahead of my own. But as a woman, that’s what I was taught to do. Your husband, your children, your parents—their happiness all mattered more. You were always someone’s wife, or mother, or daughter before you were yourself. It’s like I didn’t live my life for myself, as myself. Like I wasted what I was given.” “You did what was expected of you for the people you loved. I wouldn’t call that a waste.

I love how your moral compass rarely wavers, even when I try to corrupt it. A very admirable personality trait. I wish I could say I was as decent as you all the time. But, somehow, bending the

the regrets they’d felt when faced with the fact they might die. Most of them were recurring themes in my REGRETS notebook—people wishing they’d worked less, loved more, taken more risks, followed their passions. Sadly, regret was pretty predictable.

most of us are guilty of that with our loved ones. We get stuck in a routine and we look at them as we’ve always looked at them, without seeing them for the person they’ve become or the person they strive to be. What a terrible thing to do to someone you love.

frustrated me that society was so determined to quantify grief, as if time could erase the potency of love. Or, on the other hand, how it dictated that grief for someone you knew fleetingly should be equally as fleeting. But while a mother who miscarries might not have ever had the chance to hold that child, they had plenty of time to love them, to dream and hope for them. And that means their grief is twofold—they’re not just grieving the child, but the life they never got to experience. Who are we to tell anyone their pain isn’t worthy?

What makes all the pain and hurt worthwhile is the love and connections we create along the way. What makes it all worth the ride is friends...