Lavender Song Quotes

Fate. As a child, that word was often my only companion. It whispered to me from dark corners during lonely nights. It was the song of the birds in spring and the call of the wind through bare branches on a cold winter afternoon. Fate. Both my anguish and my solace. My escort and my cage.

It was the song of the birds in spring and the call of the wind through bare branches on a cold winter afternoon. Fate. Both my anguish and my solace. My escort and my cage.

White roses and red roses: those were beautiful colours to think of. And the cards for first place and second place and third place were beautiful colours too: pink and cream and lavender. Lavender and cream and pink roses were beautiful to think of. Perhaps a wild rose might be like those colours and he remembered the song about the wild rose blossoms on the little green place. But you could not have a green rose. But perhaps somewhere in the world you could.

You want listeners to smell the lavender, to feel the point of those knitting needles in a handbag of the granny who happens to harbor a loyalty to Madame Defarge. You want the listener to know the wood's burning in the stove when they walk into the song with me. Music is about all of your senses, not just hearing.

purple threaded evening. a torn goddess laying on the roof. milk sky. lavender hued moan against hot asphalt. the thickness of evening presses into your throat. polaroids taped to the ceiling. ivy pouring out of the cracks in the wall. i found my courage buried beneath molding books and forgot to lock the door behind me. the old house never forgets. opened my mouth and a dandelion fell out. reached behind my wisdom teeth and found sopping wet seeds. pulled all of my teeth out just to say i could. he drowned himself in a pill bottle and the orange really brought out his demise. lay me down on a bed of ground spices. there’s a song there, i know it. amethyst geode eyes. cracked open. no one saw it coming. october never loved you. the moon still doesn’t understand that.

I sometimes wonder if that is what Krishna meant — Among other things — or one way of putting the same thing: That the future is a faded song, a Royal Rose or a lavender spray Of wistful regret for those who are not yet here to regret, Pressed between yellow leaves of a book that has never been opened.

What can she do but shrink with terror? Soon she is only doll-size in dark doll’s costume. Quivering bones and feverish blood are the stuffings of this doll, its entrails tickled by fear’s funereal plume. It flies to a corner of the room and cringes within enormous shadows, sometimes dreaming there throughout the night—of carriage wheels rioting in a lavender mist or a pearly fog, of nacreous fires twitching beyond the margins of country roads, of cliffs and stars.

As spring comes with thick pink blooms, daffodil openings and lavender lilies, the earth starts singing a song of awakening, and from the depths of despair comes the landscape of colors and hope for spring rain falls on the grounds at last. The earth is reborn with smiling blossoms and you believe in something called second chances.

How easily I touch my lips to her hair, soft and smelling of lavender. She sighs a little, nestles closer. Almost, I can imagine that this is my life, held in the sweet circle of her arms. I would marry her, and we would have a child.

As a songwriter, I'm gathering clues and possibilities all the time, whether I see a piano that day or not. I've tried to explain to people how I collect these dispatches, because I think anybody can do what I'm talking about. Once I do plug in, I might get only one line and two bar phrases of the melody. I always have elements of songs around that may never ever get recorded. As far back as Little Earthquakes, I began to realize that I needed to have a library of notes, phrases, words, things that might prove useful at any given time. Within a few months' time I'll gather hundreds of those fragments. Half won't be used. And then the craft comes in, the part that is about painting a world. You want listeners to smell the lavender, to feel the point of those knitting needles in a handbag of the granny who happens to harbor a loyalty to Madame Defarge. You want the listener to know the wood's burning in the stove when they walk into the song with me. Music is about all of your senses, not just hearing.

There it was again. Fate. As a child, the word was often my only companion. It whispered to me from dark corners during lonely nights. It was the song of the birds in spring and the call of the wind through bare branches on a cold winter afternoon. Fate. Both my anguish and my solace. My escort and my cage.

I heard a rapid alternation of notes, a vibrating staccato of an ancient instrument, nearly as old as nature herself, a cricket singing in my garden last night, the first time this year. When turning my garden's soil, I often uncover crickets, curmudgeons that scramble to find solitude and cover from the light, but I rarely hear their ancient song 'till near summer's end. Although the wind is now lofting the branches and rustling the leaves, the evening sun still warms my face. And my garden still blooms full with pink-papered hollyhocks and blue, green spikes of lavender, and roses, bright pinks and yellows, all glowing from sunshine-swelled canes, and zinnias, rainbow-shingled orbs, and more. And yet, I am already dreading the coming of fall, all dressed in small rags of red, yellow, and orange. I know that my summer garden is nearing its end, as hailed by the cricket's song.

Love and aspirations! Let me take you behind the rainbow, And show you the colours of love, Let me make you wet with my feelings of love, As every droplet of my colourful feelings kisses you behind that rainbow. Let me borrow some colourful mist from the butterfly, And sprinkle it on your soul, Let me love you whole including your soul, As you become the envy of every butterfly. Let me take you to the garden of roses, lavenders and other beautiful flowers, And love you like careless lovers, Let us be those carefree and self indulgent lovers, As I secretly endow you with the beauty of all these flowers. Let us stand at the banks of the noisy rivulet, And flow with its hastiness in one direction, Let you be the sea and I will be the river flowing in this direction, As you and I become the part of the happily and always rushing rivulet. Let me take you to a place where it is always morning, And let the dew fall on your soul and quench you, Let you be the pasture of million grass blades as the dew drops kiss you, As you witness the wave of pleasure engulfing you , then only for you let me be this morning. Let me take you to the distant valley where the shepherdess sings a beautiful song, And you try to be her melody, Let me then be the every note of this melody, As you get drawn towards the mesmerising song. Let me make you sit before my mirror long enough, And fill myself just with your visual imaginations, Let there be no memory left in me except your imaginations, As I love you today Irma may it be till eternity, and yet not enough! Let me feel your bright body and deep eyes, under the sun, And I shall love you in presence of this universe, Let me kiss you , to feel you and to remember you just like this universe, As sometimes under the moonlight I feel you are my warmth and my only sun! Let me love you forever, Although loving is brief but forgetting is an infinite loop of time, So, let me love you Irma till the end of time, Because we were born for each other and to be together forever. Let me now take you to the pinnacle of hopes, dreams and beautiful aspirations, And you decide if you wish to push me into the abyss of nothingness, Let me tell you though, I shall find you even in that nothingness, Because as we both stood in front of the mirror, I hope you remember, my reflection was a representation of your beauty and aspirations!

Sun so generous it shall be you, Vapors lighting and shading my face it shall be you, You sweaty brooks and dew it shall be you, Winds whose soft-tickling genitals rub against me it shall be you, Broad muscular fields, branches of liveoak, loving lounger in my winding paths, it shall be you, Hands I have taken, face I have kissed, mortal I have ever touched, it shall be you." Robert stopped, and surveyed her face. Waiting, Lavender supposed, for a response. "The passage strikes me as amorous and carnal, Sir. The parlor grows cold. We need more fire." She rose quickly and scratched around with kindling and sticks Arlo Snook had, in his habitual way, stacked neatly by the fireplace. The task allowed her to turn away from Robert, for in truth, Whitman's words unsettled her, their anatomy parts she'd heard only in ladies' physical education at Cobourg Academy.

My love My love stood on the verge of something beautiful, about to happen in life And it has been just the rustling of the leaves from the trees The old song sang the memories of yesterday Nothing can save the day But the cold, night That soothes and mends broken hearts While the birds sleep and the moon shines And the waves come crashing to the shore Like some bad dream on a sweltering night My love longed and my heart panted My mind created the perfect love story My soul longed to belong only to her As the flowers bloom in the spring My heart is still filled with love My soul is full of hope And yet the soft songs of life Twist their words in images It struck my heart as if it were a knife Now life has become one of long gratitude In the endless fields of lavender. And yellow barley Life has broken the very spirit that roamed in the fields of life, like an untamed spirit like the wind, Like the clouds, like the sun, that rises and sets, like the moon that shines so bright and yellow, like a beautiful sleep that resets the body and galvanizes the soul We are just flashes of thoughts and feelings That keeps flowing out of our souls Kenan Hudaverdi 18.10.2017

But it was a longer journey than that. A journey that had started four years ago, on a warm winter afternoon, when a kind German officer with sky-blue eyes first gazed down at Feliciano in the sunlight. A journey Feliciano had remembered and recreated so many times it seemed almost fantastical. Speeches of flying and lavender and loyalty; words spoken in too-lyrical German and too-strong Italian. Stolen glances and songs of resistance, language lessons and soccer games beneath a gnarled old oak tree. Falling against Ludwig's military jacket in a narrow alley that echoed with gunshots; wearing that very same jacket, studded with green leaves and rosemary, during a simple, calm, beautiful walk into the hills. Every day of waiting, every hour of not knowing, every endless second of being without the person Feliciano needed more than anything else in the entire world. All of it had led him here. Every step Feliciano had taken for the last four years had led him here.

Lavender's thoughts returned to the poetry, and Robert reading it, canting, rich-toned, about hands, kisses. It shall be you. Having no smelling salts nearby, Lavender moved matters to a more pragmatic realm. "I must warm the tea," she told Robert. For the pot had sat, untouched, for some time, and had surely cooled. (In the kitchen, she loosened her collar, to alleviate her overheated state, to avoid becoming a sweaty brook.)

In the other story, the real one that must be nurtured with the gentleness of a seedling plant, two days hence would bring leaves, grass and Robert Trout. His visit must remain clandestine, his company continue; there were too many questions, too much poetry to hear, more harp song perhaps. And the genial hum of him. Peculiar to feel such kinship with a stranger. And sympathy for his rootless plight filled Lavender like an interior stream---a rill and beck that coursed through her veins and chased the coracle of her heart along at a pace so rapid she trembled at the risk of it capsizing, tossing her onto the shores of some barren, alien planet.

The night breeze cooled her flushed skin, and she lifted her head to the setting sun. The scent of the almond trees mingled with the headier lavender and roses, calming her. The sun dipped slowly, setting off a wild array of pinks and oranges, and a splay of yellow that pointed toward the clouds that brought a song to Esther's soul. Perhaps Adonai had not abandoned her in this place. Could she have a purpose even as one in hundreds or a thousand in a harem? Would God grant her favor in the king's eyes and allow her to know him- to see him more than one night?

In addition to the rose stems, she'd stashed some stalks of yarrow---Fitch's yarrow, harp-song yarrow, as local people called it. They bought it for protection, healing or, often, a love charm. Lavender knew yarrow's other, more shadowy names: werewolf's tail, witch's weed, bad man's plaything.