Clover Luck Quotes

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

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

Corned beef and cabbage and leprechaun men. Colorful rainbows hide gold at their end. Shamrocks and clovers with three leaves plus one. Dress up in green—add a top hat for fun. Steal a quick kiss from the lasses in red. A tin whistle tune off the top of my head. Friends, raise a goblet and offer this toast— 'The luck of the Irish and health to our host!'

Complaining about your luck is not allowed. Rokutarou, you’re not the only one that matters but they leave that aside and do their best.If you start comparing misfortunes, it would never end. What’s the meaning in that? Everyone knows you had a hard time.

When they came to harvest my corpse (open your mouth, close your eyes) cut my body from the rope, surprise, surprise: I was still alive. Tough luck, folks, I know the law: you can't execute me twice for the same thing. How nice. I fell to the clover, breathed it in, and bared my teeth at them in a filthy grin. You can imagine how that went over. Now I only need to look out at them through my sky-blue eyes. They see their own ill will staring then in the forehead and turn tail Before, I was not a witch. But now I am one.

Things happened. Bad things. Good things. It was what you did with them that mattered.

Ilse and I hunted all over the old orchard today for a four-leaved clover and couldn't find one. Then I found one in a clump of clover by the dairy steps tonight when I was straining the milk and never thinking of clovers. Cousin Jimmy says that is the way luck always comes, and it is no use to look for it.

Willa once shared her theory that finding a four-leaf clover was a symptom of luck, not a cause. “It just means you have the kind of life where there are growing things and you have time to look at them,” she said. I think she was actually making a point about class privilege? But I like to imagine that luck is everywhere, even before you find it.

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.

When does a joke become a dad joke? When it becomes apparent. I, for one, like Roman numerals. Yesterday, a clown held a door open for me. I thought it was a nice jester. Why is it a bad idea to iron your four-leaf clover? Because you shouldn’t press your luck.

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.

We were partners in sewing. And partners in luck-hunting: four-leaf clovers, sand-dollar birds, red sea glass, clouds shaped like hearts, the first daffodils of spring, ladybugs, ladies in oversized hats. Best to bet on all the horses, dear, she’d say. Quick, make a wish, she’d say. I bet. I wished. I was her disciple. I still am.

Irish luck, aye, that I’ve got. A four-leaf clover—aye, that too. I’ll tell ye, lassie, what I’ve not, A lucky Irish kiss from you!

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

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.

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.

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.

They Harry Potters still enormously outnumber the likes of Petunia and Vernon Dursley in society, who just don't hold with such nonsense, perhaps reflecting how modern life seems more out of control than ever. Most people do indeed believe in magic of one sort or another, whether the thespian who shouts "break a leg" at a colleague, the student who always wears the same outfit for exams, the blushing bride who crosses her fingers for good luck or those who jump with joy when they find a four-leaf clover. Why is our belief in magic so deeply ingrained? Indeed, why do we believe in anything at all?

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.

good luck!  What

One never knows what fate has in store.” Turning toward Rohan, Amelia discovered he was glancing over her in a slow inventory that spurred her heart into a faster beat. “I don’t believe in fate,” she said. “People are in control of their own destinies.” Rohan smiled. “Everyone, even the gods, are helpless in the hands of fate.” Amelia regarded him skeptically. “Surely you, being employed at a gaming club, know all about probability and odds. Which means you can’t rationally give credence to luck or fate or anything of the sort.” “I know all about probability and odds,” Rohan agreed. “Nevertheless, I believe in luck.” He smiled with a quiet smolder in his eyes that caused her breath to catch. “I believe in magic and mystery, and dreams that reveal the future. And I believe some things are written in the stars … or even in the palm of your hand.” Mesmerized, Amelia was unable to look away from him. He was an extraordinarily beautiful man, his skin as dark as clover honey, his black hair falling over his forehead in a way that made her fingers twitch with the urge to push it back. “Do you believe in fate too?” she asked Merripen. A long hesitation. “I’m a Roma,” he said. Which meant yes. “Good Lord, Merripen. I’ve always thought of you as a sensible man.” Rohan laughed. “It’s only sensible to allow for the possibility, Miss Hathaway. Just because you can’t see or feel something doesn’t mean it can’t exist.

The second day of Katy's visit was devoted to the luncheon-party of which Rose had written in her letter, and which was meant to be a reunion or "side chapter" of the S.S.U.C. Rose had asked every old Hillsover girl who was within reach. There was Mary Silver, of course, and Esther Dearborn, both of whom lived in Boston; and by good luck Alice Gibbons happened to be making Esther a visit, and Ellen Gray came in from Waltham, where her father had recently been settled over a parish, so that all together they made six of the original nine of the society; and Quaker Row itself never heard a merrier confusion of tongues than resounded through Rose's pretty parlor for the first hour after the arrival of the guests. There was everybody to ask after, and everything to tell. The girls all seemed wonderfully unchanged to Katy, but they professed to find her very grown up and dignified. "I wonder if I am," she said. "Clover never told me so. But perhaps she has grown dignified too." "Nonsense!" cried Rose; "Clover could no more be dignified than my baby could. Mary Silver, give me that child this moment! I never saw such a greedy thing as you are; you have kept her to yourself at least a quarter of an hour, and it isn't fair." "Oh, I beg your pardon," said Mary, laughing and covering her mouth with her hand exactly in her old, shy, half-frightened way. "We only need Mrs. Nipson to make our little party complete," went on Rose, "or dear Miss Jane! What has become of Miss Jane, by the way? Do any of you know?" "Oh, she is still teaching at Hillsover and waiting for her missionary. He has never come back. Berry Searles says that when he goes out to walk he always walks away from the United States, for fear of diminishing the distance between them." "What a shame!" said Katy, though she could not

But that four-leafed clover hadn't brought any luck either to this soldier or to me. He was a man, too, like me, or like Mr. Hubicka, like us he hadn't any distinction or rank, and yet we had shot each other and brought each other to death, although surely if we could have met somewhere in civil life we might well have liked each other, and found a lot to talk about. And then the explosion rang out. And I, who only a little while before had been looking forward to the sight, lay there beside the German soldier, stretched out my hand and opened his stiffening fingers, and put into them the green four-leaved clover that brings luck, while from somewhere away there in the countryside a mushroom cloud soared into the sky, endlessly expanding into greater heights and vaster smoky masses. I heard the pressure of the air rush across the countryside and hiss and whistle through the bare branches of the trees and bushes, I heard it rattle the transfer chains on the signal, and lean on the arm and shake it; but I lay coughing, and felt my blood draining out of me. To the last moment, before I began to lose the awareness of myself, I held this dead man by the hand, and for his unhearing ears I repeated the words of the chief of that mail train which had brought those wretched Germans from Dresden: 'You should have sat at home on your arse...

I stir the simmering potion until it turns a bright, gruesome red, the same shade as Ruby Valentino's lips. But it's too bright, too obvious. Then I remember. I reach into the pocket of my dress, past the spool of thread, to the thing I'm looking for. When I pull it out, the leaves are slightly flattened, but it's still intact: the four-leaf clover given to me by the leprechaun in St. Patrick Town. He said it would bring me luck. And I need it now. I drop the green clover into the potion, and within seconds, the color turns a vibrant, grassy green--reminding me of the damp meadow in St. Patrick Town, freshly dewed with rain. The exact shade I need.

He starts to turn away, then stops, scratching at his beard, considering something, before bending low in the grass and plucking something from the soil. He holds it out in his palm. "Good luck, giant," he says, nodding. In his palm rests a tiny green leaf. "It's a four-leaf clover," he explains with a wink. "And one that's been plucked from inside St. Patrick Town is particularly lucky." I take the green clover from his palm and hold it up to the clouded sky, marveling at its four perfectly rounded leaves. It smells of soil and rain, resting delicately between my fingertips. And it looks just like the clover on the doorway into this realm. "Thank you," I say to him, but when I glance up, he's already vanished into the thick green spruce trees and falling raindrops.

There are no such things as heroes. After all, for every man we call a hero, is he not cursed as our enemies’ greatest villain? So don your mask, young master. Don’t be afraid to bend the laws of shadow and light. And leave it to history to brand you as it deems fit.

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.

What are you trying to tell me?" she repeated, picking up the little clover stem from the edge of her plate and twirling it between her fingers. She thought of what Star had told her about her gift, that she brought clarity to people with her cooking. Would it work for her? Could she bring clarity to her own heart? On impulse, she pulled off the four leaves of the clover and sprinkled them over the omelet. Why not give it a try? Clover was edible, with a slightly lemony flavor. Not a terribly appealing plant to eat, but tolerable in small quantities. "Today I ask for faith, hope, love, and luck," she whispered, not at all sure this was going to work. "Please show me what I need to see." As she spoke the words, she realized she was not petitioning Julia but speaking to the island, to the Stevens women--- Star and Emma and Helen--- and to her own heart. She didn't know who or what was sending her these signs in the form of four-leaf clovers. Perhaps it was the island as Star suspected, or the universe, or Emma and Helen. The origin was a mystery, and in a way, the source didn't really matter. She just wanted to know what it all meant. What were the four-leaf clovers trying to reveal to her?

Who needs a strategy when you can rely on luck and a four-leaf clover?

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.

All I have sought is to unlock every doorway I could for you, then let you step through the one you see fit.” Rye blinked her wide eyes slowly. “But what if I don’t know which one to step through?” she asked. Harmless just smiled before answering. “Sometimes, discovering the wrong ones is as valuable as finding the right.