Fragrance Gift Quotes

Let's look at the bright side of life, even if love has only been a long shot and become evanescent, it may still inspire us if we have the gift to savor the fragrance of the treasured moments of togetherness from memorable times that furtively slipped away. ("Waiting for the smoke signals")

We have different forms assigned to us in the school of life, different gifts imparted. All is not attractive that is good. Iron is useful, though it does not sparkle like the diamond. Gold has not the fragrance of a flower. So different persons have various modes of excellence, and we must have an eye to all.

I love the stillness of the wood; I love the music of the rill: I love the couch in pensive mood Upon some silent hill. Scarce heard, beneath yon arching trees, The silver-crested ripples pass; and, like a mimic brook, the breeze Whispers among the grass. Here from the world I win release, Nor scorn of men, nor footstep rude, Break into mar the holy peace Of this great solitude. Here may the silent tears I weep Lull the vested spirit into rest, As infants sob themselves to sleep Upon a mothers breast. But when the bitter hour is gone, And the keen throbbing pangs are still, Oh, sweetest then to couch alone Upon some silent hill! To live in joys that once have been, To put the cold world out of sight, And deck life's drear and barren scene With hues of rainbow-light. For what to man the gift of breath, If sorrow be his lot below; If all the day that ends in death Be dark with clouds of woe? Shall the poor transport of an hour Repay long years of sore distress— The fragrance of a lonely flower Make glad the wilderness? Ye golden house of life's young spring, Of innocence, of love and truth! Bright, beyond all imagining, Thou fairy-dream of youth! I'd give all wealth that years have piled, The slow result of Life's decay, To be once more a little child For one bright summer's day.

A mature person has the integrity to be alone. And when a mature person gives love, he gives without any strings attached to it: he simply gives. And when a mature person gives love, he feels grateful that you have accepted his love, not vice versa. He does not expect you to be thankful for it – no, not at all, he does not even need your thanks. He thanks you for accepting his love. And when two mature persons are in love, one of the greatest paradoxes of life happens, one of the most beautiful phenomena: they are together and yet tremendously alone, they are together so much so that they are almost one. But their oneness does not destroy their individuality; in fact, it enhances it: they become more individual. Two mature persons in love help each other to become more free. There is no politics involved, no diplomacy, no effort to dominate. How can you dominate the person you love? Just think over it. Domination is a sort of hatred, anger, enmity. How can you even think of dominating a person you love? You would love to see the person totally free, independent; you will give him more individuality. That’s why I call it the greatest paradox: they are together so much so that they are almost one, but still in that oneness they are individuals. Their individualities are not effaced; they have become more enhanced. The other has enriched them as far as their freedom is concerned. Immature people falling in love destroy each other’s freedom, create a bondage, make a prison. Mature persons in love help each other to be free; they help each other to destroy all sorts of bondages. And when love flows with freedom there is beauty. When love flows with dependence there is ugliness. Remember, freedom is a higher value than love. That’s why, in India, the ultimate we call moksha. Moksha means freedom. Freedom is a higher value than love. So if love is destroying freedom, it is not of worth. Love can be dropped, freedom has to be saved; freedom is a higher value. And without freedom you can never be happy, that is not possible. Freedom is the intrinsic desire of each man, each woman – utter freedom, absolute freedom. So anything that becomes destructive to freedom, one starts hating it. Don’t you hate the man you love? Don’t you hate the woman you love? You hate; it is a necessary evil, you have to tolerate it. Because you cannot be alone you have to manage to be with somebody, and you have to adjust to the other’s demands. You have to tolerate, you have to bear them. Love, to be really love, has to be being-love, gift-love. Being-love means a state of love. When you have arrived home, when you have known who you are, then a love arises in your being. Then the fragrance spreads and you can give it to others. How can you give something which you don’t have? To give it, the first basic requirement is to have it.

I am, a shadow that grows longer as the sun moves, drawn out on a thread of wonder. If I bear burdens they begin to be remembered as gifts, goods, a basket of bread that hurts my shoulders but closes me in fragrance. I can eat as I go. ("Stepping Westward")

A Kite is a Victim A kite is a victim you are sure of. You love it because it pulls gentle enough to call you master, strong enough to call you fool; because it lives like a desperate trained falcon in the high sweet air, and you can always haul it down to tame it in your drawer. A kite is a fish you have already caught in a pool where no fish come, so you play him carefully and long, and hope he won't give up, or the wind die down. A kite is the last poem you've written so you give it to the wind, but you don't let it go until someone finds you something else to do. A kite is a contract of glory that must be made with the sun, so you make friends with the field the river and the wind, then you pray the whole cold night before, under the travelling cordless moon, to make you worthy and lyric and pure. Gift You tell me that silence is nearer to peace than poems but if for my gift I brought you silence (for I know silence) you would say This is not silence this is another poem and you would hand it back to me There are some men There are some men who should have mountains to bear their names through time Grave markers are not high enough or green and sons go far away to lose the fist their father’s hand will always seem I had a friend he lived and died in mighty silence and with dignity left no book son or lover to mourn. Nor is this a mourning song but only a naming of this mountain on which I walk fragrant, dark and softly white under the pale of mist I name this mountain after him. -Believe nothing of me Except that I felt your beauty more closely than my own. I did not see any cities burn, I heard no promises of endless night, I felt your beauty more closely than my own. Promise me that I will return.- -When you call me close to tell me your body is not beautiful I want to summon the eyes and hidden mouths of stone and light and water to testify against you.- Song I almost went to bed without remembering the four white violets I put in the button-hole of your green sweater and how i kissed you then and you kissed me shy as though I'd never been your lover -Reach into the vineyard of arteries for my heart. Eat the fruit of ignorance and share with me the mist and fragrance of dying.-

THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN ME AND YOU When I hold a rose, I see the soft, velvety petals and smile, because tucked between those precious petals is a special gift - the one of a fragrance, pure and sweet. When you hold a rose, you see the thorns along the stem, and you frown because those thorns can bring you pain and cause you to bleed. I see the gift. You see the tragedy. More and more I fear that one of these days someone will hand me a rose and all I will see are thorns. Talk about tragedy.

Yes, this sudden transmutation in the order of things seems to enhance our pleasure, as if consecrating the unchanging nature of a ritual established over our afternoons together, a ritual that has ripened into a solid and meaningful reality. Today, because it has been transgressed, our ritual suddenly acquires all its power; we are tasting the splendid gift of this unexpected morning as if it were some precious nectar; ordinary gestures have an extraordinary resonance, as we breathe in the fragrance of the tea, savor it, lower our cups, serve more, and sip again: every gesture has the bright aura of rebirth. At moments like this the web of life is revealed by the power of ritual, and each time we renew our ceremony, the pleasure will be all the greater for our having violated one of its principles. Moments like this act as magical interludes, placing our hearts at the edge of our souls: fleetingly, yet intensely, a fragment of eternity has come to enrich time. Elsewhere the world may be blustering or sleeping, wars are fought, people live and die, some nations disintegrate, while others are born, soon to be swallowed up in turn - and in all this sound and fury, amidst eruptions and undertows, while the world goes its merry way, bursts into flames, tears itself apart and is reborn: human life continues to throb.

Take a sip and kiss me, Eve. No one will know.” I inhale his scent mixed with the fragrance of the oleanders. I can feel the heat rising off his hand onto mine. The caress in his voice and he invites me with a tone I don’t know how to describe. It’s not an order. It’s not a suggestion. It’s a… temptation. “I… I can’t…” I blurt out, stuttering. “I don’t drink.

You give but little when you give of your possessions. It is when you give of yourself that you truly give. For what are your possessions but things you keep and guard for fear you may need them tomorrow? And tomorrow, what shall tomorrow bring to the overprudent dog burying bones in the trackless sand as he follows the pilgrims to the holy city? And what is fear of need but need itself? Is not dread of thirst when your well is full, the thirst that is unquenchable? There are those who give little of the much which they have--and they give it for recognition and their hidden desire makes their gifts unwholesome. And there are those who have little and give it all. These are the believers in life and the bounty of life, and their coffer is never empty. There are those who give with joy, and that joy is their reward. And there are those who give with pain, and that pain is their baptism. And there are those who give and know not pain in giving, nor do they seek joy, nor give with mindfulness of virtue; They give as in yonder valley the myrtle breathes its fragrance into space. Through the hands of such as these God speaks, and from behind their eyes He smiles upon the earth. It is well to give when asked, but it is better to give unasked, through understanding; And to the open-handed the search for one who shall receive is joy greater than giving. And is there aught you would withhold? All you have shall some day be given; Therefore give now, that the season of giving may be yours and not your inheritors'. You often say, "I would give, but only to the deserving." The trees in your orchard say not so, nor the flocks in your pasture. They give that they may live, for to withhold is to perish. Surely he who is worthy to receive his days and his nights, is worthy of all else from you. And he who has deserved to drink from the ocean of life deserves to fill his cup from your little stream. And what desert greater shall there be, than that which lies in the courage and the confidence, nay the charity, of receiving? And who are you that men should rend their bosom and unveil their pride, that you may see their worth naked and their pride unabashed? See first that you yourself deserve to be a giver, and an instrument of giving. For in truth it is life that gives unto life while you, who deem yourself a giver, are but a witness. And you receivers... and you are all receivers... assume no weight of gratitude, lest you lay a yoke upon yourself and upon him who gives. Rather rise together with the giver on his gifts as on wings; For to be overmindful of your debt, is to doubt his generosity who has the freehearted earth for mother, and God for father.

.... romance is so much bigger than just a love story. Romance has to do with making things lovely because of love. Romance means absorbing the beauty of life, conversation, atmosphere, places, and surroundings. It means increasing our awareness of the fragrance of pine trees, freshly ground coffee, and sheets drying on the line; hearing the music of waves, children's laughter, and he rain drumming on the roof: seeing the signature of God on His creation. It means drinking the gift of life to the dregs. All to be enjoyed, all to be taken in." p. 17

we tune into more sensory data than non-highly sensitive people. Crowds, loud noises, bright lights, chemicals, coarse fabrics, unpleasant fragrances, people’s emotions … all these things can be taxing.

The rose is not the most beautiful flower of this world. But it's you. Why ? because, Rose can just set the mood happy, but your gorgeous beauty, your sexy fragrance and your pretty smile, set happy, all feelings, heart and soul

THE CREEK AND THE STARS Spirit is so mixed with the visible world that giver, gift, and beneficiary are one thing. You are the grace raining down; the grace is you. Creation is a clear, flat, fast-moving creek, where qualities reflect. Generations rush by, while the stars stay still without a splash. When you lose your appetite for food, you'll be given other nourishment. There's well-being that is not bodily and beings that live on fragrance. Don't worry about losing animal energy. Go the way of love and ask provisions. Love more the star region reflected, less the moving medium.

Strawberries first shaped my view of a world full of gifts simply scattered at your feet. A gift comes to you through no action of your own, free, having moved toward you without your beckoning. It is not a reward; you cannot earn it, or call it to you, or even deserve it. And yet it appears. Your only role is to be open-eyed and present. Gifts exist in a realm of humility and mystery—as with random acts of kindness, we do not know their source. The plant has in fact been up all night assembling little packets of sugar and seeds and fragrance and color, because when it does so its evolutionary fitness is increased. When it is successful in enticing an animal such as me to disperse its fruit, its genes for making yumminess are passed on to ensuing generations with a higher frequency than those of the plant whose berries were inferior. The berries made by the plant shape the behaviors of the dispersers and have adaptive consequences. What I mean of course is that our human relationship with strawberries is transformed by our choice of perspective. It is human perception that makes the world a gift. When we view the world this way, strawberries and humans alike are transformed. The relationship of gratitude and reciprocity thus developed can increase the evolutionary fitness of both plant and animal.

There are those who give little of the much which they have – and they give it for recognition and their hidden desire makes their gifts unwholesome. And there are those who have little and give it all. These are the believers in life and the bounty of life, and their coffer is never empty. There are those who give with joy, and that joy is their reward. And there are those who give with pain, and that pain is their baptism. And there are those who give and know not pain in giving, nor do they seek joy, nor give with mindfulness of virtue; They give as in yonder valley the myrtle breathes its fragrance into space. Through the hands of such as these God speaks, and from behind their eyes He smiles upon the earth.

What are you saying?” I whisper in the dark. Then I feel my hand being grabbed over the glass. “Take a sip and kiss me, Eve. No one will know.” I inhale his scent mixed with the fragrance of the oleanders. I can feel the heat rising off his hand onto mine. The caress in his voice and he invites me with a tone I don’t know how to describe. It’s not an order. It’s not a suggestion. It’s a…temptation.

To feel alive, I need your presence. To scent my soul, I need your fragrance. I'm strong enough just for pretense. But so easily, I can melt into your embrace. To keep my life warm, I need your heat. a unexplainable joy in my heart since you met. To intoxicate me, I need the wine of your eyes. You are a gorgeous angel far above the skies. It fills the thirst in my heart whenever you kiss. So delicious is the nectar of your lips. One in a million You are one extraordinary pretty. And I'm addicted to the miracle of your beauty.

The autumn leaves were pulverized and the fragrance of leaf-decay was pleasant. The air was empty but good. As the sun went down the landscape was like the still frame of an old movie on sepia film. Sunset. A red wash spreading from remote Pennsylvania, sheep bells clunking, dogs in the brown barnyards. I was trained in Chicago to make something of such a scant setting. In Chicago you became a connoisseur of the near-nothing. With a clear eye I looked at a clear scene, I appreciated the red sumac, the white rocks, the rust of the weeds, the wig of green on the bluff over the crossroads.

There are those who give little of the much which they have — and they give it for recognition and their hidden desire makes their gifts unwholesome. And there are those who have little and give it all. These are the believers in life and the bounty of life, and their coffer is never empty. There are those who give with joy, and that joy is their reward. And there are those who give with pain, and that pain is their baptism. And there are those who give and know not pain in giving, nor do they seek joy, nor give with mindfulness of virtue; They give as in yonder valley the myrtle breathes its fragrance into space.

Then, halfway down the little lane, I stood still, as the soft flutter of a childhood memory brushed my heart: I had just recognized, from the indentations of the shiny leaves overhanging the threshold, a hawthorn bush, which since the end of spring, alas, had been bare of all blossom. A fragrance of forgotten months of Mary and long-lost Sunday afternoons, beliefs, and fallacies surrounded me. I wished I could grasp it as it passed. Andrée, seeing me pause, showed her charming gift of insight by letting me commune for a moment with the leaves of the little tree: I asked after its blossom, hawthorn flowers like blithe young girls, a little silly, flirtatious, and faithful.

The air was steeped with the heady fragrance of roses, as if the entire hall had been rinsed with expensive perfume. "Good Lord!" she exclaimed, stopping short at the sight of massive bunches of flowers being brought in from a cart outside. Mountains of white roses, some of them tightly furled buds, some in glorious full bloom. Two footmen had been recruited to assist the driver of the cart, and the three of them kept going outside to fetch bouquet after bouquet wrapped in stiff white lace paper. "Fifteen dozen of them," Marcus said brusquely. "I doubt there's a single white rose left in London." Aline could not believe how fast her heart was beating. Slowly she moved forward and drew a single rose from one of the bouquets. Cupping the delicate bowl of the blossom with her fingers, she bent her head to inhale its lavish perfume. Its petals were a cool brush of silk against her cheek. "There's something else," Marcus said. Following his gaze, Aline saw the butler directing yet another footman to pry open a huge crate filled with brick-sized parcels wrapped in brown paper. "What are they, Salter?" "With your permission, my lady, I will find out." The elderly butler unwrapped one of the parcels with great care. He spread the waxed brown paper open to reveal a damply fragrant loaf of gingerbread, its spice adding a pungent note to the smell of the roses. Aline put her hand over her mouth to contain a bubbling laugh, while some undefinable emotion caused her entire body to tremble. The offering worried her terribly, and at the same time, she was insanely pleased by the extravagance of it. "Gingerbread?" Marcus asked incredulously. "Why the hell would McKenna send you an entire crate of gingerbread?" "Because I like it," came Aline's breathless reply. "How do you know this is from McKenna?" Marcus gave her a speaking look, as if only an imbecile would suppose otherwise. Fumbling a little with the envelope, Aline extracted a folded sheet of paper. It was covered in a bold scrawl, the penmanship serviceable and without flourishes. No miles of level desert, no jagged mountain heights, no sea of endless blue Neither words nor tears, nor silent fears will keep me from coming back to you. There was no signature... none was necessary. Aline closed her eyes, while her nose stung and hot tears squeezed from beneath her lashes. She pressed her lips briefly to the letter, not caring what Marcus thought. "It's a poem," she said unsteadily. "A terrible one." It was the loveliest thing she had ever read. She held it to her cheek, then used her sleeve to blot her eyes. "Let me see it." Immediately Aline tucked the poem into her bodice. "No, it's private." She swallowed against the tightness of her throat, willing the surge of unruly emotion to recede. "McKenna," she whispered, "how you devastate me.

Today you are young.your beauty attract every man But the day when you will feel older yourself when you will feel magic of body vanish On that day time will remind you,that man who fall in love with your soul but you will not find him,because you killed him in All The day when you will feel wrinkles on your skin and will understand,no one want to touch it,not soft any more On that day time will remind that man who die for aroma of your skin,for him its always remain best fragrance But you will not find him, because you killed him by your ignorance The day you will feel,you are now not able to feed sex hunger and you will understand men around you but not with you On that day time will remind you that man who never hungry for your body,who just feed love and emotions to your soul and to your heart But you will not find him,because, you killed him by put your betrayed knife in his heart maybe it will not happen,maybe your life will full of love maybe you will never remember past.maybe you will forget All But on the day when you will die,and your loving people will bury you inside your grave,when you will realize, all that who loves you,all that with you spend days & nights all that for whom you cooked you serve,all that whose bed you warm all that who impress by your beauty,all that who claim to love you they all buried you here alone and gone in that your loneliness,time will remind you,that man who just dream to lay with you inside your grave, who dream to bury together in one grave But you will not find him That day will realize you,whom you killed That day will realize you,you killed a man who don't wanted to be just partner of you life but to partner of your death who don't wanted to be just partner of your bed but to partner of your grave Then you will realize you betrayed killed,partner of your grave Partner Of Your Grave,

Healing is the way of the heart. This book is an invitation to open our heart. Healing is a love affair with life. Healing is pure love. Love is what creates healing. Spiritual healing is to be one with ourselves. And to be one with ourselves is to be in joy. Healing is to develop our inner being. Healing is to discover that which is already perfect within ourselves. It is to rediscover our inner life source. Spiritual healing is to be one with life. We are never really alone, it is our idea of a separate "I" that creates the feeling of being separate from life, from the Whole. In reality there is only one heart, a pulsating Existential heart. Our own heart pulsates in unity with the Existential heartbeats. We are all notes in the Existential music, and without our unique note the music would not be complete. We are all needed in the Whole; we all have our unique fragrance, quality and gifts to contribute to the Whole. More than 30 years ago, I had an individual consultation with a spiritual teacher. I did not have time to sit down before I got the question: "You are interested in healing, are you not?" It was the first time that I encountered the topic that would become my way and deep source of joy in life. This spiritual teacher finished the consultation saying: "You will be a fine healer." The art of healing is the psychology of being, the science of inner transformation. The psychology of being begins where Western psychology ends. It goes beyond Skinner, Freud, Jung, Rogers, Maslow and humanistic psychology. The psychology of being is the psychology of consciousness, a psychology for inner transformation. It is not basically a question of psychology, it is a question of being. The psychology of being begins where we are, and take us to everything that we can be. The underlying theme the psychology of being is meditation - but not meditation as a static technique - but as the capacity to BE with ourselves and others in a quality of watchful awareness, acceptance and realization. The art of being is a search beyond the personality. It a search beyond the thoughts, the emotions and the learned attitudes of the personality, to the inner being, to the depth within, which is hidden in ourselves. The inner being is a deep acceptance of ourselves as we are; the inner being is to be available to life. The inner being is to be in unity with life. This book is an invitation to meet the inner being, our inner source of love, joy, acceptance, humor, intuition, understanding, wisdom, truth, silence and creativity.

Marvellous lovingkindness." Psalm 17:7 When we give our hearts with our alms, we give well, but we must often plead to a failure in this respect. Not so our Master and our Lord. His favours are always performed with the love of his heart. He does not send to us the cold meat and the broken pieces from the table of his luxury, but he dips our morsel in his own dish, and seasons our provisions with the spices of his fragrant affections. When he puts the golden tokens of his grace into our palms, he accompanies the gift with such a warm pressure of our hand, that the manner of his giving is as precious as the boon itself. He will come into our houses upon his errands of kindness, and he will not act as some austere visitors do in the poor man's cottage, but he sits by our side, not despising our poverty, nor blaming our weakness. Beloved, with what smiles does he speak! What golden sentences drop from his gracious lips! What embraces of affection does he bestow upon us! If he had but given us farthings, the way of his giving would have gilded them; but as it is, the costly alms are set in a golden basket by his pleasant carriage. It is impossible to doubt the sincerity of his charity, for there is a bleeding heart stamped upon the face of all his benefactions. He giveth liberally and upbraideth not. Not one hint that we are burdensome to him; not one cold look for his poor pensioners; but he rejoices in his mercy, and presses us to his bosom while he is pouring out his life for us. There is a fragrance in his spikenard which nothing but his heart could produce; there is a sweetness in his honey-comb which could not be in it unless the very essence of his soul's affection had been mingled with it. Oh! the rare communion which such singular heartiness effecteth! May we continually taste and know the blessedness of it!

Our acceptance with God is sure only through His beloved Son, and good works are but the result of the working of His sin-pardoning love. They are no credit to us, and we have nothing accorded to us for out good works by which we may claim a part in the salvation of our souls. Salvation is God’s free gift to the believer, given to him for Christ’s sake alone. The troubled soul may find peace through faith in Christ, and his peace will be in proportion to his faith and trust. He cannot present his good works as a plea for the salvation of his soul. But are good works of no real value? Is the sinner who commits sin every day with impunity, regarded of God with the same favor as the one who through faith in Christ tries to work in his integrity? The Scripture answers, ‘We are his workmanship, created in Christ Jesus unto good works, which God has before ordained that we should work in them.’ In His divine arrangement, through His unmerited favor, the Lord has ordained that good works shall be rewarded. We are accepted through Christ’s merit alone, and the acts of mercy, the deeds of charity, which we perform, are the fruits of faith; and they become a blessing to us; for men are to be rewarded according to their works. It is the fragrance of the merit of Christ than makes our good works acceptable to God, and it is grave that enables us to do the works for which He rewards us. Our works in and of themselves have no merit. When we have done all that it is possible for us to do, we are to count ourselves as unprofitable servants. We deserve no thanks from God. We have only done what it was our duty to do, and our works could not have been performed in the strength of our own sinful nature. The Lord has bidden us to draw nigh to Him, and He will draw nigh to us; and drawing nigh to Him, we receive the grace by which to do those good works which will be rewarded at His hands.

Partner Of Grave," Today, you are young. Your beauty attracts everyone. But the day when you will feel older yourself when you will feel the magic of the body vanish. On that day, time will remind you of the man who fell in love with your soul. but you will not find him because you killed him in All The day when you will feel wrinkles on your skin and will understand; no one wants to touch it. It's not soft anymore. On that day, time will remind that man who dies for the aroma of your skin; for him, it was always the best fragrance. But you will not find him because you killed him in your ignorance. The day you will feel that you are now unable to feed sexual hunger and you will understand men around you but not with you. On that day, time will remind you of that man. who was never hungry for your body, who just feeds love and emotions to your soul and to your heart But you will not find him because You killed him by putting your betrayal knife in his heart. Maybe it will never happen, and maybe your life will be full of love. Maybe you will never remember the past. Maybe you will forget All But on the day when you die, your loving people will bury you. Inside your grave, At that time, you will realize, All the people who love you, all the people who spend their days and nights with you All that for whom you cooked you served, all that whose bed you warm All those who are impressed by your beauty, all those who claim to love you They all buried you here alone and gone. In that your loneliness, time will remind you, that man who just dreamed to lay with you inside your grave, who dream to be buried together in one grave But you will not find him. That day, you will realize who you killed. That day, you will realize you killed a man. who desired to be not only your life partner but also your death partner. who desired to be not only the partner of your bed but also the partner of your grave. Then you'll realize your betrayal killed your partner of grave Partner Of Your Grave," ― Mohammed Zaki Ansari

When we are sold perfume, we are accustomed to also being sold the idea of a life we will never have. Coty's Chypre enabled Guerlain to create Mitsouko; Coty's Emeraude of 1921 was the bedrock on which Shalimar was built and Coty's L'Origan become the godmother of L'heure bleue, also by Guerlain. Some people dedicate themselves to making life beautiful. With instinctual good taste, magpie tendencies and a flair for color, they weave painfully exquisite tableaux, defining the look of an era. Paul Poiret was one such person. After his success, he went bust in 1929 and had to sell his leftover clothing stock as rags. Swept out of the picture by a new generation of designers, his style too ornate and Aladdinesque, Poiret ended his days as a street painter and died in poverty. It was Poiret who saw that symbolic nomenclature could turn us into frenzied followers, transforming our desire to own a perfume into desperation. The beauty industry has always been brilliant at turning insecurities into commercial opportunities. Readers could buy the cologne to relax during times of anxiety or revive themselves from strain. Particularly in the 1930s, releases came thick and fast, intended to give the impression of bounty, the provision of beauty to all women in the nation. Giving perfumes as a gift even came under the Soviet definition of kulturnost or "cultured behavior", including to aunts and teachers on International Women's Day. Mitsouko is a heartening scent to war when alone or rather, when not wanting to feel lonely. Using fragrance as part of a considered daily ritual, the territorial marking of our possessions and because it offers us a retrospective sense of naughtiness. You can never tell who is going to be a Nr. 5 wearer. No. 5 has the precision of well-cut clothes and that special appeal which comes from a clean, bare room free of the knick-knacks that would otherwise give away its age. Its versatility may well be connected to its abstraction. Gardenia perfumes are not usually the more esoteric or intellectual on the shelves but exist for those times when we demand simply to smell gorgeous. You can depend on the perfume industry to make light of the world's woes. No matter how bad things get, few obstacles can block the shimmer and glitz of a new fragrance. Perfume became so fashionable as a means of reinvention and recovery that the neurology department at Columbia University experimented with the administration of jasmine and tuberose perfumes, in conjunction with symphony music, to treat anxiety, hysteria and nightmares. Scent enthusiasts cared less for the nuances of a composition and more for the impact a scent would have in society. In Ancient Rome, the Stoics were concerned about the use of fragrance by women as a mask for seducing men or as a vehicle of deception. The Roman satirist Juvenal talked of women buying scent with adultery in mind and such fears were still around in the 1940s and they are here with us today. Similarly, in crime fiction, fragrance is often the thing that gives the perpetrator away. Specifically in film noir, scent gets associated with misdemeanors. With Opium, the drugs tag was simply the bait. What YSL was really marketing, with some genius, was perfume as me time: a daily opportunity to get languid and to care sod-all about anything or anyone else.

Oh, Matthew," she whispered, moved to tears. "I called it Grace. I hope you don't mind." For the first time, his manner held a hint of shyness, disconcerting in a man who had just made love to her without hesitation or reticence. Gently, she curled her hand around what was inside the box and lifted it to the light. "It's your rose." "No, it's your rose." A heady fragrance filled the air. With one shaking finger, Grace touched a flawless pink petal. The color was unforgettable. It was the most beautiful rose she'd ever seen. Impossible to credit that those unpromising stalks in his courtyard had produced this exquisite bloom. "It's perfect," she whispered. "It's a miracle." He was a miracle. How could she not love the man who conjured this beauty with hands and imagination? The faint smile broadened. Had he worried that she'd reject his gift? Foolish, darling Matthew. The question was whether the rose was a promise of a future or a token of parting. "I worked on it whenever I could. This last year has been busy." An understatement, she knew. The Marquess of Sheene had been a ubiquitous presence in London since his release. Everywhere he went, society feted him as a hero. She'd read of the string of honors he'd received, the friendship with the king, the invitations to join scientific boards and societies. Echoing her gesture, he reached out to touch the petals. The sensitivity of his fingers on the flower reminded her of his hands on her skin. "I did most of the basic experiments when I was a prisoner, but I couldn't get it right." He glanced up with an expression that combined pride and diffidence in a breathtakingly attractive mixture. "This is the first bud, Grace. It appeared almost a year to the day after I promised to wait. It seemed a sign." "And you brought it to me," she said softly, staring at the flower. The anniversary of his release didn't occur for two more days. That date was etched on her longing heart. Then she noticed something else. "My glove," she said blankly. With unsteady hands, she reached in and withdrew a light green kidskin glove from a recess carved away from the damp. The buttery leather was crushed and worn from incessant handling. "Have you kept it all this time?" "Of course." He wasn't smiling anymore and his eyes deepened to a rich, rare gold. Beautiful, unwavering, somber. "You make me want to cry." Her voice emerged so thickly, she didn't sound like herself. She laid the box on the bench and tightened her grip on the soft leather until her knuckles whitened. What was he trying to tell her? What did the rose mean? The glove? Had he carried her glove into his new life like a knight wore his lady's favor into battle? The thought sent choking emotion to her throat.

Mother’s Love is the fragrance of the blooming flowers, is the softest whisper of an angel, is the comfort of the white clouds, is the fire and warm on a cold night , is the glow from a Angel, Is the Divine Gift from God.

The natural rose and artificial rose fragrances the reality itself. Similarly, A spiritual healer inspires the incredible and magnificent vision and insight of psychology, which predicts the Divine gift. Whereas, a psychologist, qualified from an institution presumes its study prospects. The discrepancy endorses clarity itself.

Both things are invisible But we Both are aware I colored my self in your fragrance And you colored your hands in my BLOOD

I began the day I was to dine at casa di Palone in the Vaticano kitchen, helping Antonio prepare the pope's meals. For noonday, we made barley soup, apples, and a little cheese and bread. For the evening meal, we prepared the same soup with bits of roasted capons, and I made a zabaglione egg dish with a little malmsey wine. I suspected the pope would not touch the custardy dessert, but I felt compelled to take a chance. The worst that might happen was that he would order me to go back to his regular menu. And at best, perhaps he would recognize the joy of food God gifted to us. Once we had finished the general preparations, Antonio helped me bake a crostata to take to the Palone house that evening. He set to work making the pastry as I cleaned the visciola cherries- fresh from the market- and coated them with sugar, cinnamon, and Neapolitan mostaccioli crumbs. I nestled the biscotti among several layers of dough that Antonio had pressed into thin sheets to line the pan. Atop the cherries, I laid another sheet of pastry cut into a rose petal pattern. Antonio brushed it with egg whites and rosewater, sugared it, and set the pie into the oven to bake. Francesco joined us just as I placed the finished crostata on the counter to cool. The cherries bubbled red through the cracks of the rose petals and the scalco gave a low whistle. "Madonna!" Antonio and I stared at him, shocked at the use of the word as a curse. Francesco laughed. "That pie is so beautiful I think even our Lord might swear." He clapped me on the shoulder. "It is good to see you cooking something besides barley soup, Gio. It's been too long since this kitchen has seen such a beautiful dessert." The fragrance was magnificent. I hoped the famiglia Palone would find the pie tasted as good as it looked.

When you find yourself really enlivened by a young woman, breathe in her fragrance. Breathe in her energy. Relax your body and allow your heart to open in her presence. Take in her beauty through every pore in your body. Allow love to radiate from your heart toward her. Maintain a respectful formality so that she is free and empowered to give her gift, without being complicated by your personal agenda.

We followed him to a covered veranda. In America, we would call that a lemonade porch, however, in South Africa, they call it a stoep. A meeting place located outside the front of the home where friends and family can gather, and one can watch the rising or the setting of the sun in the cozy spot simply called a stoep. The stoep projected a natural ambience of peace and harmony, as a light breeze filled the space with its woodsy fragrance of pine and other natural fragrances inspired by the area’s shrubbery. It almost felt like it was hypnotizing one into a deeper state of tranquility, a state of existence that celebrated the quiet pockets of solitude where a richer from of living is housed. It made one slouch a little more meaningfully and relax the muscles of your body a little more conscientiously, as you let go of one’s innate need to think – to think to the point of hyper focusing on the meaningless details of life, for example, the incessant need to make every moment in life count… Yet, the stoep’s lesson of deeper living is simply the gift of becoming reacquainted with the joy of just being – open yet connected to now, without a higher purpose beyond that. Sometimes, the greatest gift that we can give ourselves is just to sit in the rawness of the moment without any outcome or intention in mind – except, to breathe in the life of the area around us. That is where my afternoon’s lesson ended, knowing that a stoep is a space where quality of human connection is made with or without the presence of any audience because it’s that space that celebrates the stillness of nothing and yet everything simultaneously, or in the words of Rumi: “In order to understand the dance, one must be still. And in order to truly understand the stillness, one must dance.” In South Africa that concept is lovingly called…Die Stoep, a space of possibility.

Before dragging it down through mosses, sedges, and small twin flowers—plants the deer had eaten all its life—he’d taken a sharp knife to the belly, opened it and found a fragrance, the moist smell of Earth, something Gramps had spoken of. He had said that when it happens, when the deer gives itself to you this way, it’s a gift the hunter must accept with gratitude.

We now bring our self-offering as a sequel to Christ’s offering, being inspired and empowered by it to imitate Him. Instead of our own weak efforts, we offer the fruits of Christ’s transformative work in our lives (“Christ in us”): “For our way of approach is in Christ, and through Him we who have been defiled are brought forward. We have been made righteous through faith and no longer dedicate ourselves but Christ in us to the Father as a pleasant aroma, since we [now] have a spiritual fragrance.”7

Colin is standing on our front stoop with a dozen red roses in his hand. “For you,” he says, surprising me. Wow! I’m feeling stupid for thinking about Alex so much this past week. I hug Colin and give him a kiss, a real one on the lips. “Let me put these in water,” I say, stepping back. I hum happily as I walk to the kitchen, smelling their sweet fragrance. Putting water in a vase, I wonder if Alex ever brought his girlfriend flowers. Alex probably brings his dates sharp knives as gifts, in case she’ll need one when she’s out on a date with him.

Eve was beside herself. Whatever this is, Deene had best appreciate—why are you staring at me like that?” He closed the door and stepped closer. The room was unusual, built with a small balcony overlooking a conservatory that might have been added as an afterthought, hence its relative warmth and humidity, and the lush scent of foliage blending with all the other fragrances wafting through the house. “Looking at you like what?” “Like… you just lost your best friend? Won’t it be wonderful to go home to Flint Hall, Elijah?” Elijah was better than my lord, and because she seemed to need it, he lied for her. “Wonderful, indeed. Have you told your parents yet that you’re going to Paris?” He had the sense she was waiting for him to leave Morelands first, unwilling to have his support even tacitly. “Not… not yet.” She set the perfect little gift down. “Louisa says I must, and she grasps tactics with an intuition I can only admire. I wish…” Her gaze went to the elegant little parcel. “I wish…” While Elijah watched, Jenny lost some of that distant, preoccupied quality that had characterized her since they’d finished their paintings. She gazed on that parcel as if it held secrets and treats and even a happy ending or two. Once they completed the twenty-minute walk back to Morelands, they’d have no more private moments ever. He’d leave for London at first light; she’d sail for Paris, probably before the New Year. “What do you wish, Genevieve?” Because whatever it was, he’d give it to her. His heart, his soul, his hands, passage to Paris—passage home from Paris. How he wished she’d ask him for that, but passage home was something she could only give herself. “Will you make love with me, Elijah? You’re leaving tomorrow, I know that, and I shouldn’t ask it. I shouldn’t want it, but I do. I want you, so much. Please?

Song Day, in melting purple dying, Blossoms, all around me sighing, Fragrance, from the lilies straying, Zephyr, with my ringlets playing, Ye but waken my distress; I am sick of loneliness. Thou, to whom I love to hearken, Come, ere night around me darken; Though thy softness but deceive me, Say thou’rt true, and I’ll believe thee; Veil, if ill, thy soul’s intent, Let me think it innocent! Save thy toiling, spare thy treasure: All I ask is friendship’s pleasure; Let the shining ore lie darkling, Bring no gem in lustre sparkling! Gifts and gold are nought to me; I would only look on thee! Tell to thee the highwrought feeling, Ecstasy but in revealing; Paint to thee the deep sensation, Rapture in participation, Yet but torture, if compressed In a lone, unfriended breast. Absent still! Ah! come and bless me! Let these eyes again caress thee; Once, in caution, I could fly thee: Now, I nothing could deny thee; In a look if death there be, Come, and I will gaze on thee!

Patience is My Power *** I stand open To every person I live far from pretentious I escape from such plays What I feel and imagine I write that The exact thought Since I honor the truth I speak the truth Whereas I am also strong To bear All the bitter and critical Conducts and attitudes Of the people I avoid the quarrel I face all awkward faces With only my glory And gifted power The patience That breaks my anger That enlightens my vision That heals, The wounds of my soul That inspires the calm That washes with the tears My heart and mind To display a smile Upon my lips I always win By holding the patience The costless Fragrance and waves Of my entity and conception.

Patience is My Power *** I stand open To every person I live far from pretentious I escape from such plays What I feel and imagine I write that The exact thought Since I honor the truth I speak the truth Whereas I am also strong To bear All the bitter and critical Conducts and attitudes Of the people I avoid the quarrel I face all awkward faces With only my glory And gifted power The patience That breaks my anger That enlightens my vision That heals, The wounds of my soul That inspires the calm That washes with the tears My heart and mind To display a smile Upon my lips I always win By holding the patience The cost less Fragrance and waves Of my entity and conception.

I Love You Mama You ran in the right lane You knew that you were in a race You became my happy place You brightened my face You kept me in your gentle embrace You taught me how to live with grace You became a powerful woman I could emulate You ought to be celebrated in essence You are truly a woman of substance You and brilliance belong to the same sentence You filled my space with a sweet fragrance You lit the room with your presence You raised me with a clear conscience You gave me profound guidance Your teachings, I still preserve Your prayers, I will treasure Your impact, I shall not forget Your commitment, I felt But, I now have to accept that you left Here is what I want you to know I love you, Mama!

I Love You Mama You ran on the right lane You knew that you are in a race You became my happy place You brightened my face You kept me in your gentle embrace You taught me how to live with grace You became a powerful woman I could emulate You ought to be celebrated in essence You are truly a woman of substance You and brilliance belong to the same sentence You filled my space with a sweet fragrance You lit the room with your presence You raised me with a clear conscience You gave me profound guidance Your teachings, I still preserve Your prayers, I will treasure Your impact, I shall not forget Your commitment, I felt But, I now have to accept that you left Here is what I want you to know I love you, Mama!

The commodity economy has been here on Turtle Island for four hundred years, eating up the white strawberries and everything else. But people have grown weary of the sour taste in their mouths. A great longing is upon us, to live again in a world made of gifts. I can scent it coming, like the fragrance of ripening strawberries rising on the breeze.

A great longing is upon us, to live again in a world made of gifts. I can scent it coming, like the fragrance of ripening strawberries rising on the breeze.

There are those who give little of the much which they have - and they give it for recognition and their hidden desire makes their gifts unwholesome. And there are those who have little and give it all. These are the believers in life and the bounty of life, and their coffer is never empty. And there are those who give and know not pain in giving, nor do they seek joy, nor give with mindfulness of virtue; they give as in yonder valley the myrtle breathes its fragrance into space. Through the hands of such as these God speaks, and from behind their eyes He smiles upon the earth. You often say, “I would give, but only to the deserving.” The trees in your orchard say not so, they give that they may live, for to withhold is to perish.

Love exists in three dimensions. The first dimension of love is the exclusive relationship with a certain person. There are many conditions and expectations in exclusive relationships. The moment a condition and expectation are not fulfilled, love disappears. Then love exists only when the other person is fulfilling your conditions and expectations. When you can possess the other person, then you are loving. But the moment the conditions is not fulfilled, love turns into hatred. This is the lowest dimension of love, which people ordinary call love when love is an exclusive relationship. The second dimension  of love is not a relationship. In the second dimension of love, one is simply loving. This has nothing to do with somebody in particular. One is loving whether one is alone or relating with somebody else. One is loving with the trees, the birds, the animals,the rivers and with the mountains. Then love is like the fragrance of a flower, which shares whether somebody is present or not. Now love has become a quality of our being.  The first dimension of love is an exclusive relationship, which includes conditions and expectations. The second dimension of is lovingness as a quality of being. The third dimension of love is love itself. One is not even conscious that one is loving. In the second dimension of love, thereis a certain self-consciousness that one is loving. The ego, the "I", is still there. Once you have attained to the second dimension of love, you have to wait until the third dimension of love happens. That is a gift of God. Then the self-consciousness disappears and only pure love is left. Everybody around you will feel it, but you will not be conscious about it. And the more you are without self-consciousness, the more others will feel it. 

An elegant woman who fears the Lord, carries a sweet fragrance within her Soul.

We give them power, to play the game Then to who do we blame we do surrender even without struggle keep quiet, we use to sit cool and calm Then to who do we blame ink, Paper pen, and human they are buying all, what they can blood in the street. is washing money rain putridity of Corpse, vanish by the status fragrance Orgy of cruelty everywhere without shame it's a new normal, as we are so tolerance just, religion cast and anti-nation where is health where is education harmony, peace, and love disappearing who is dying nearby, who is caring closed inside the malice cage, just dancing to the leader's fame Then to who do we blame the world is a market full of moon-shine shade the financial value will decide your grade the disease is a business, death is a trade I have seen, people crying for a piece of bread but, TV studio, newspaper, and twitter Filled to the brim with hate thread don't shout, shut your mouth king is sleeping, building the nation in a dream working hard for your butter and cream hunger, Poverty, thirst, nothing at all you must be a pride citizen, that's all keep burning nationalism flame otherwise, you are a traitor, damn We give them power, to play the game let them play, with our future and generation don't cry, don't cry, be little wise if we are a puppet of politics. to earn their bread and fame they need our sacrifice to earn their bread and fame they need our sacrifice

Can that even be considered as a color Which doesn’t compliment with your lip color Can that even be considered as a fragrance Which doesn’t halt in your hairs... Compared to you, this world feels so vague You will be mine, not anyone else’s Now this is clearly evident to everyone I announce that, As long as there’s mornings and evenings You will be mine As long as my name exists on this earth You will be mine As long as there’s mornings and evenings You will be mine As long as my name exists on this earth You will be mine I am your problem sometimes Also I am the solution to most of your problems Yes, I’m bit stubborn And of course I’m little bit crazy Rain, thunder, clouds are all liars Even the gifts of flowers are liars You are the truthful here, and of course me And all we speak are the truths Sign your name on my hand with your hands only Don’t hide your eyes with eyelashes Is it a big deal for you? Ok, I announce then, As long as there’s mornings and evenings You will be mine As long as my name exists on this earth You will be mine As long as there’s mornings and evenings You will be mine As long as my name exists on this earth You will be mine You’ll revolve around me all the time Just as the earth revolves around the sun You won’t find yourself separated from me You are my better half forever If you want, you can shatter my dreams Even if they break, they will still be yours Even you are aware of this... I announce that..................

Choose an appropriate candle. Focus on goals/desires throughout the entire process. Address the spirit while holding the candle in your hands. Explain the purpose of this candle: Is it simply to honor the spirit, a gift with no strings attached? Is it part of a request process, repayment, or fulfillment of a vow? Whatever it is, just state its purpose in simple, clear language. The candle may now be burned or further embellished. (In magical parlance, this is called dressing the candle.) Let your desires and creativity be your guide. Any or all of the following steps may be taken to dress the candle before burning: • Carve words or symbols into the candle. These words or symbols might identify you, the spirit, or someone on whose behalf you are requesting favors. Prayers, psalms, or sacred images (runes, sigils, vèvès) may be incorporated. • Add fragrance: rub the candle with oils. Some spirits have favored fragrances. Specific formula oils indicating special needs also exist: oils to draw money, love, or healing. Some manufacturers, both large-scale and artisanal, create special blends intended to invoke and honor specific spirits. • Oil will make the candle sticky: it can now be rolled in herbs or glitter as desired. Any

Most spirits possess various forms, which they consistently assume. • Most also possess various preferences in food, fragrance, colors, and gifts. • Some spirits are identified with certain numbers, trees, animals, birds, or plants. • Individual spirits possess specific symbols, known as attributes, which serve as the equivalent of a calling card. Poseidon’s attribute is a trident; Rosmerta’s is a cornucopia

Taking this enthusiastic exhortation as a model, here we see the divine endorsement of sensible pleasures, that is, things that we enjoy through our bodily senses. Things we see-the brilliant purples, reds, and oranges of a sunset; the diamond blanket of stars arrayed every night; the panoramic glory of a fertile valley seen from the top of a mountain; the majesty of a well-cultivated garden in early summer. Things we hear-the steady crashing of waves on a shoreline; the songs of birds in early spring after the long silence of winter; the soul-stirring harmony of strings, woodwinds, brass, and percussion; the innocent refreshment of laughter of children. Things we smell-the fragrance of roses, the aroma of pine, the delightful odor of cedar, the scene of a home cooked meal. Things we taste-the warm sweetness of chocolate chip cookies, the puckering sour of a glass of lemonade, the heavenly savoriness of a plate piled high with bacon, the surprising ye delightful bitterness of herbs, the piercing saltiness of well-seasoned meat. And things we touch-the cool smoothness of cotton bedsheets, the warm comfort of a wool blanket, the reassuring strength of a hug from a friend, the soft tenderness of a kiss from your spouse. All of these are gifts from God for our enjoyment.

Sending a rose to a beautiful rose To a rose who breathe who Scent my world, by her fragrance To scent your morning sweetheart, not by the fragrance of rose But by my love in form of a Rose Good Morning

Sending a rose to a beautiful rose To a rose who breathe. even not beside me but dwell in my soul in my heart more than me who Scent my world, by her fragrance To scent your morning sweetheart, not by the fragrance of rose But by my love in form of a Rose" Good Morning

An elegant woman who fears the Lord carries a sweet fragrance within her Soul.

DEAR LORD, please show me the things that I consider dear and precious that need to be broken so that I, too, may do a beautiful thing to you. The most costly gifts I can give you are my life and my love in ways that are pleasing to you. I give you also the gifts and treasures you have given me, and I offer them up for your use. Today, let the fragrance of my brokenness bring joy to you.

Celebrate the festival in a joyous way, repare yourself for Eid In a heartwarming, special way Stems not made of weft, Nor designed to show off. Wear the garments of kindness, Woven from love, never to take off Use the fragrance that's rich with care Scent yourself with the perfume of love and spread it everywhere. Let your words and actions be soft as a breeze, Be aware they cause no hurt, no unease Keep kindness sweet upon your tongue And share it with the world, old or young The only action of affection that's right, Open your arms wide, hug everyone tight Ego, anger, and superiority— Release them, set your spirit free in all To friends, to relatives, to strangers, gift Beautiful feelings to all Celebrate the festival in a joyous way, repare yourself for Eid In a heartwarming, special way repare yourself for Eid In a heartwarming, special way

Grief is the scent of a story we once wove, a gift, that the past comes back to give to the hearts torn by loss.

Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale — young clergyman, who had come from one of the great English universities, bringing all the learning of the age into our wild forest land. His eloquence and religious fervour had already given the earnest of high eminence in his profession. He was a person of very striking aspect, with a white, lofty, and impending brow; large, brown, melancholy eyes, and a mouth which, unless when he forcibly compressed it, was apt to be tremulous, expressing both nervous sensibility and a vast power of self restraint. Notwithstanding his high native gifts and scholarlike attainments, there was an air about this young minister — an apprehensive, a startled, a half-frightened look — as of a being who felt himself quite astray, and at a loss in the pathway of human existence, and could only be at ease in some seclusion of his own. Therefore, so far as his duties would permit, he trod in the shadowy by-paths, and thus kept himself simple and childlike, coming forth, when occasion was, with a freshness, and fragrance, and dewy purity of thought, which, as many people said, affected them like the speech of an angel.