Lilies Blooming Quotes

You're going to drive five miles just to give me a hug?" "I'd run five miles just to give you a hug.

She's my person, and I am hers, and that's something I've known since the first week we met.

There are many different types of kisses. There’s a passionate kiss of farewell—like the kind Rhett gave Scarlett when he went off to war. The kiss of I-can’t-really-be-with-you-but-I-want-to-be—like with Superman and Lois Lane. There’s the first kiss—one that is gentle and hesitant, warm and vulnerable. And then there’s the kiss of possession—which was how Ren kissed me now. It went beyond passion, beyond desire. His kiss was full of longing, need, and love, like all those other kisses. But, it was also filled with promises and pledges, some of which seemed sweet and tender while others seemed dangerous and exciting. He was taking me over. Staking a claim. He seized me as boldly as the tiger captured his prey. There was no escape. And I didn’t want to. I would have happily died in his clutches. I was his. And he made sure I knew it. My heart burst with a thousand beautiful blooms, all tiger lilies. And I knew with a certainty more powerful than anything I’d ever felt before that we belonged together.

She left the web, she left the loom, She made three paces through the room, She saw the water-lily bloom, She saw the helmet and the plume, She look'd down to Camelot. Out flew the web and floated wide; The mirror crack'd from side to side; "The curse is come upon me," cried The Lady of Shalott.

If it takes a million kisses for her not to think about the scars that surround her heart tattoo, then I'll kiss her there a million and one times.

He seized me as boldly as a tiger captures his prey. There was no escape. And I didn't want to. I would have happily died in his clutches. I was his, and he made sure I knew it. My heart burst with a thousand beautiful blooms, all tiger lilies. And I knew with a certainty more powerful than anything I'd ever felt before that we belonged together. He finally lifted his head and murmured against my lips, "It's about bloody time, woman.

Everyone deserves another chance. Especially the people who mean the most to you.

The calla lilies are in bloom again. Such a strange flower—suitable to any occasion. I carried them on my wedding day, and now I place them here in memory of something that has died.

Less speed, less strength, less stamina since I hadn't "bloomed". But I'd bet I was outweighing everyone around me in the brain category.

If beautiful lilies bloom in ugly waters, you too can blossom in ugly situations.

I think that the best kind of change, is the change that comes from the inside and begins it's way out until it emerges on the outside; a change that is born underneath then continues and spreads until it has reached the surface. That's a true change. A powerful change. And I have found that while we are emerging, changing into something glorious; it is actually us becoming who we really are. A water lily is born underneath the water, inside the soil at the bottom of the river or lake. And the water lily has always been a water lily for that whole time that it was sprouting out of the wet soil, reaching up through the dark water towards the sunlight, stretching and grasping for the surface; where it then buds and blooms on the outside in the sunshine. It doesn't bud and bloom on the surface and then try to reach down below into the soil.

I think about how sometimes, no matter how convinced you are that your life will turn out a certain way, all that certainty can be washed away with a simple change in tide - Lily Bloom (It Ends with Us)

Fury ignited behind my breastbone , a hot glow like coals blooming into something sharp and dangerous. It was the same old crap- someone thinking they can push you around because you're young, because you're helpless. You had to just sit there and take it because you were under a certain number , because you weren't a real person yet; you could be picked up and dropped like a toy, left behind or thrown away...

I had that picture made the day after I took it," he says. "It's been in my apartment for months now, because you were the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen and I wanted to look at it every single day."

It was nice meeting you, Lily Bloom. I hope you defy the odds of most dreams and actually accomplish yours.” I

Dear Ellen, "Just keep swimming." Recognize that quote, Ellen? It's what Dory says to Marlin in Finding Nemo. "Just keep swimming, swimming, swimming." I'm not a huge fan of cartoons, but I'll give you props for that one. I like cartoons that can make you laughter, but also make you feel something. After today, think that's my favorite cartoon. Because I've been feeling like drowning lately, and sometimes people need a reminder that they just need to keep swimming.

Today I'll wear a dress made of sunlight, I'll spin like the lilies, I'll bloom like the stars. Hands hold, Hearts fold, Under my thumbprint sky.

My heart is a field of lilies blooming under a pane of glass, pitter-pattering to life like a rush of raindrops.

I would enter the desert alone, to leave in the sand endless footprints only to be obliterated by the wind, to walk the same path each day expecting the same path tomorrow, and perhaps to cease wondering at the bloom and wither of lilies only to linger for death. But no, even in the desert, I would seek a new sanctuary, to contemplate a grain of sand in a sea of dryness...

Why lily?” “It’s the most sacred and beautiful of all flowers in Egypt. They bloom in mud and shine in the darkness like a gift from the gods to remind you that no matter how bad something is, it will get better. That no matter how dark the night, the light will come for you. If you partake of them, they have the power to calm and soothe you, and to heal your wounds.” When he spoke his next words, they were laced with emotion and sincerity. “You are, and will always be, my sšn.

Ryle," I say carefully. "Did you seriously just knock on twenty-nine doors so you could tell me that the thought of me is making your life hell and I should have sex with you so that you'll never have to think of me again? Are you

It stops here, With me and you, It ends with us.

this is lonesome country, and here in the sunken marshes where tiger lilies bloom the size of a man's head there are luminous green logs that shine under the dark water like drowned corpses. Often the only movement on the landscape is a broken spiral of smoke from a sorry-looking farmhouse on the horizon, or a wing-stiffened bird, silent and arrow-eyed, circling endlessly over the bleak deserted pinewoods.

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Because it has lived its life intensely the parched grass still attracts the gaze of passers-by. The flowers merely flower, and they do this as well as they can. The white lily, blooming unseen in the valley, Does not need to explain itself to anyone; It lives merely for beauty. Man, however, cannot accept that 'merely'. If tomatoes wanted to be melons, they would look completely ridiculous. I am always amazed that so many people are concerned with wanting to be what they are not; what's the point of making yourself look ridicuolous? You don't always have to pretend to be strong, there's no need to prove all the time that everything is going well, you shouldn't be concerned about what other people are thinking, cry if you need to, it's good to cry out all your tears (because only then will you be able to smile again).

This is the only negative aspect to finally being with the person you’re meant to be with. You go years aching to be with them, and when they finally become a significant part of your life, it somehow hurts even more.

(First lines) Now a traveler must make his way to Noon City by the best means he can, for there are no trains or buses headed in that direction, though six days a week a truck from the Chuberry Turpentine Company collects mail and supplies at the nextdoor town of Paradise Chapel; occasionally a person bound for Noon City can catch a ride with the driver of the truck, Sam Ratcliffe. It's a rough trip no matter how you come, for these washboard roads will loosen up even brandnew cars pretty fast, and hitchhikers always find the going bad. Also, this is lonesome country, and here in the sunken marshes where tiger lilies bloom the size of a man's head there are luminous green logs that shine under the dark water like drowned corpses. Often the only movement on the landscape is a broken spiral of smoke from a sorry-looking farmhouse on the horizon, or a wing-stiffened bird, silent and arrow-eyed, circling endlessly over the bleak deserted pinewoods.

She is the sensitivity of the dew drops. She is the innocence of the blooming Lily. She is the calm of the sylvan lake. She is the beautiful light of the candle flame. She is the wildness of the Kadupul flower. She is the magic of the full moon night!

She is the sensitivity of the dew drops. She is the innocence of the blooming Lily. She is the calm of the sylvan lake. She is the beautiful light of the candle flame. She is the wildness of the Kadupal flower. She is the magic of the full moon night!

It was strong, whatever was between us, thick, like the wet air and the smell of every green thing ready to bloom. Maybe it was just spring. Maybe that's all it was.

If you truly believe that I would have been unfaithful to you, then go ahead and believe that. I don't have the energy to keep convincing you otherwise. I've explained this to you before, so I'm not saying it again. I never would have left you for Atlas. I didn't leave you for Atlas. I left you because I deserve to be treated better than the way I was treated by you.

Then set out after repeated warning the grizzly Afghan Duryodhan in blazing sun removed sandal-wood blooded stone-attired guards spearing gloom brought out a substitute of dawn crude hell’s profuse experience Huh a night-waken drug addict beside head of feeble earth from the cruciform The Clapper could not descend due to lockdown wet-eyed babies were smiling . in a bouquet of darkness in forced dreams The Clapper wept when learnt about red-linen boat’s drowned passengers in famished yellow winter white lilies bloomed in hot coal tar when in chiseled breeze nickel glazed seed-kernel moss layered skull which had moon on its shoulder scolded whole night non-weeping male praying mantis in grass bronze muscled he-men of Barbadoz pressed their fevered forehead on her furry navel . in comb-flowing rain floated on frowning waves diesel sheet shadow whipped oceans all wings had been removed from the sky funeral procession of newspaperman’s freshly printed dawn lifelong jailed convict’s eye in the keyhole outside in autumnal rice pounding pink ankle Lalung ladies

I liked the thought of giving my life, my memories, to the next rycke, because Gage would live on in them forever. He would be a balm, a reprieve from all the darkness. A sweet, delicate bloom that stayed rooted deep in the earth in the eye of a swirling storm of death and rage. I would make sure of it—I would make sure that my memories of him were never lost. I would make them the brightest spot in my mind.

He would be a balm, a reprieve from all the darkness. A sweet, delicate bloom that stayed rooted deep in the earth in the eye of a swirling storm of death and rage. I would make sure of it—I would make sure that my memories of him were never lost. I would make them the brightest spot in my mind.

Oh, the meadows were gold and the sky so blue, I traveled down that pebble path I so well knew. The sun shined on down through trees so green And I picked white flowers for which I was so keen. Oh sweet lilies of mine, the beauty you shine, Over hilltops and streams below, You bend in the breeze and bloom with ease, In the morning as the dew starts to glow…

The patience he still owes me from all the times he had none

I can't afford to allow anyone to break me anymore. I have a daughter I need to be whole for.

What are you doing?" "Helping Josh with his homework. Trying to pretend I'm not thinking about you.

I dreamed I stood upon a little hill, And at my feet there lay a ground, that seemed Like a waste garden, flowering at its will With buds and blossoms. There were pools that dreamed Black and unruffled; there were white lilies A few, and crocuses, and violets Purple or pale, snake-like fritillaries Scarce seen for the rank grass, and through green nets Blue eyes of shy peryenche winked in the sun. And there were curious flowers, before unknown, Flowers that were stained with moonlight, or with shades Of Nature's willful moods; and here a one That had drunk in the transitory tone Of one brief moment in a sunset; blades Of grass that in an hundred springs had been Slowly but exquisitely nurtured by the stars, And watered with the scented dew long cupped In lilies, that for rays of sun had seen Only God's glory, for never a sunrise mars The luminous air of Heaven. Beyond, abrupt, A grey stone wall. o'ergrown with velvet moss Uprose; and gazing I stood long, all mazed To see a place so strange, so sweet, so fair. And as I stood and marvelled, lo! across The garden came a youth; one hand he raised To shield him from the sun, his wind-tossed hair Was twined with flowers, and in his hand he bore A purple bunch of bursting grapes, his eyes Were clear as crystal, naked all was he, White as the snow on pathless mountains frore, Red were his lips as red wine-spilith that dyes A marble floor, his brow chalcedony. And he came near me, with his lips uncurled And kind, and caught my hand and kissed my mouth, And gave me grapes to eat, and said, 'Sweet friend, Come I will show thee shadows of the world And images of life. See from the South Comes the pale pageant that hath never an end.' And lo! within the garden of my dream I saw two walking on a shining plain Of golden light. The one did joyous seem And fair and blooming, and a sweet refrain Came from his lips; he sang of pretty maids And joyous love of comely girl and boy, His eyes were bright, and 'mid the dancing blades Of golden grass his feet did trip for joy; And in his hand he held an ivory lute With strings of gold that were as maidens' hair, And sang with voice as tuneful as a flute, And round his neck three chains of roses were. But he that was his comrade walked aside; He was full sad and sweet, and his large eyes Were strange with wondrous brightness, staring wide With gazing; and he sighed with many sighs That moved me, and his cheeks were wan and white Like pallid lilies, and his lips were red Like poppies, and his hands he clenched tight, And yet again unclenched, and his head Was wreathed with moon-flowers pale as lips of death. A purple robe he wore, o'erwrought in gold With the device of a great snake, whose breath Was fiery flame: which when I did behold I fell a-weeping, and I cried, 'Sweet youth, Tell me why, sad and sighing, thou dost rove These pleasent realms? I pray thee speak me sooth What is thy name?' He said, 'My name is Love.' Then straight the first did turn himself to me And cried, 'He lieth, for his name is Shame, But I am Love, and I was wont to be Alone in this fair garden, till he came Unasked by night; I am true Love, I fill The hearts of boy and girl with mutual flame.' Then sighing, said the other, 'Have thy will, I am the love that dare not speak its name.

You will never find Jesus so precious, as when the world is one vast howling wilderness. Then He is like a rose blooming in the midst of the desolation, or a rock rising above the storm! Do not set your hearts on any of the flowers of this world. They shall all fade and die. Prize the Rose of Sharon and the Lily of the Valley. Jesus never changes! Live nearer to Christ than to any person on this earth; so that when they are taken away, you may have Him to love and lean upon. “Yes, He is altogether lovely. This is my Beloved, and this is my Friend!” (Song of Solomon 5:16)

There is a bench in the back of my garden shaded by Virginia creeper, climbing roses, and a white pine where I sit early in the morning and watch the action. Light blue bells of a dwarf campanula drift over the rock garden just before my eyes. Behind it, a three-foot stand of aconite is flowering now, each dark blue cowl-like corolla bowed for worship or intrigue: thus its common name, monkshood. Next to the aconite, black madonna lilies with their seductive Easter scent are just coming into bloom. At the back of the garden, a hollow log, used in its glory days for a base to split kindling, now spills white cascade petunias and lobelia. I can't get enough of watching the bees and trying to imagine how they experience the abundance of, say, a blue campanula blosssom, the dizzy light pulsing, every fiber of being immersed in the flower. ... Last night, after a day in the garden, I asked Robin to explain (again) photosynthesis to me. I can't take in this business of _eating light_ and turning it into stem and thorn and flower... I would not call this meditation, sitting in the back garden. Maybe I would call it eating light. Mystical traditions recognize two kinds of practice: _apophatic mysticism_, which is the dark surrender of Zen, the Via Negativa of John of the Cross, and _kataphatic mysticism_, less well defined: an openhearted surrender to the beauty of creation. Maybe Francis of Assissi was, on the whole, a kataphatic mystic, as was Thérèse of Lisieux in her exuberant momemnts: but the fact is, kataphatic mysticism has low status in religious circles. Francis and Thérèse were made, really made, any mother superior will let you know, in the dark nights of their lives: no more of this throwing off your clothes and singing songs and babbling about the shelter of God's arms. When I was twelve and had my first menstrual period, my grandmother took me aside and said, 'Now your childhood is over. You will never really be happy again.' That is pretty much how some spiritual directors treat the transition from kataphatic to apophatic mysticism. But, I'm sorry, I'm going to sit here every day the sun shines and eat this light. Hung in the bell of desire.

From golden showers of the ancient skies, On the first day, and the eternal snow of stars, You once unfastened giant calyxes For the young earth still innocent of scars: Young gladioli with the necks of swans, Laurels divine, of exiled souls the dream, Vermilion as the modesty of dawns Trod by the footsteps of the seraphim; The hyacinth, the myrtle gleaming bright, And, like the flesh of woman, the cruel rose, Hérodiade blooming in the garden light, She that from wild and radiant blood arose! And made the sobbing whiteness of the lily That skims a sea of sighs, and as it wends Through the blue incense of horizons, palely Toward the weeping moon in dreams ascends! Hosanna on the lute and in the censers, Lady, and of our purgatorial groves! Through heavenly evenings let the echoes answer, Sparkling haloes, glances of rapturous love! Mother, who in your strong and righteous bosom, Formed calyxes balancing the future flask, Capacious flowers with the deadly balsam For the weary poet withering on the husk.

She is a one in a billion girl. When you meet her, you will feel a serene breeze engulf you. When she smiles at you, the world pauses for a while. When she speaks, it feels like the nightingales are singing. She is extraordinarily pretty. She is beautiful as the rose flower. She is the fragrance of a million jasmine flowers. She is the sensitivity of the dew drops. She is the innocence of the blooming llily, ily. She is the calm of the sylvan lake. She is the beautiful light of the candle flame. She is the wildness of the Kadupal flower. She is the magic of the full moon night! When you meet her, you will forget all other girls that you ever met in the world. She is the prettiest girl in the whole world. She is the most amazing and wonderful girl in the whole world. She is the Poet's Muse.

Suddenly I was struck by the heavy fragrance of flowers. On the other side there was a garden about the size of a small room, a plot of ground raised by fill to the height of our belts. And full of flowers. A special, luxuriant flora. Long stemmed, with horn-shaped flowers whose petals were like black velvet. In one corner, a bush like a lily, arrayed with giant white blossoms like goblets. And scattered through that garden, thin-stemmed plants with white flowers marked by a single pink petal. It seemed that these gave off an exotic sweetness that cloyed and choked. In the midst of it all a bunch of fat crimson flowers lay tumbled, their silky, fleshy blossoms dipping down among the long stems of furious green grasses. This small, magical plot seemed a kaleidoscope. Just in front of my eyes purple irises bloomed up. A myriad fragrances mingled in its dazzling scent, and every hue of the rainbow glowed from those flowers.

The women would not be looking at him like this if he were carrying lilies, reflects Jean-Paul. Flowers have there own silent vocabulary. There are blooms for love, for friendship, for sorrow, and for joy. He inspect the roses he is carrying. Long-stemmed and elegant, they have been grown, selected, arranged, and purchased for a single, unambiguous purpose: to seduce.

Maybe I don’t know the names of any of the flowers of Vrangelya, but I know every one here. I know that soon the ground will be covered with white-and- yellow bloodroot. Tiny explosive trout lily. Mounds of green-framed white trillium. Rue anemone in the palest pink. All blooming in the short frame between the thawing of the ground and the leaf-out that will block the sun. It’s what happens in spring when all of Homelands calls out: Look at me. Listen to me. Love me. Make life with me.

Seeing the God statement Suppose the statement Blessed Are the pure in heart, for they shall see God were placed like a wreath of violets, Lilies, laurel, and olive, blossoms strung together Like words in a sentence, a garland Launched, set out on a flowing creek Imagine that wreath carried Down the frothy rapids, tossed, floating Slipping over water-smooth, moss-colored Boulders, in and out of slow, dark pools, Through poplar and willow shadows. It dips, Sinks momentarily, emerges, travels, maitains Its ring, its declaration and syntax. At times it widens in a broad, deep Current, makes sense as a gift. The pure becomes inclusive, spatial, Generous. God and heart are two Spread wings of one open reading. And at times it narrows, restricts. Violets and heart entangle With God. The blessed braces, Overlaps lilies and laurel. Still, at any point you might reach down yourself, catch that ring of blossoms, lift it up, wear its beauty and blooming distinction across your forehead. Look into a mirror. See what you can see.

The only things in the room that she felt any connection to were half a dozen flower postcards pinned to the wall above her desk. The red and white tulip by Judith Leyster. The vase of white lilac by Manet. The bowl of blowsy roses by Henri Fantin-Latour. The vase of tumbling blooms by Brueghel- lilies and tulips, fritillaries and daffodils, carnations and snowdrops, cornflowers and peonies and anemones. Those flowers had all died four hundred years ago, but that first week back at work, they planted a seed in Lara's heart.

Lotus is innocent and so Lily is innocent, They are very good friends, As both their lovers are in sky, Lotus lover is Sun and Lily lover is moon, Thus one bloom at night and one bloom at day, But they both feel incomplete as they are so apart, Thus love is difficult for them, it really is! But both careless star don’t give heed to both flowers, And thus both Lotus and Lily gets heartbroken, As their love union will never become possible, Thus both flower change their lover to birds, They were close and did love them, Thus Innocent love is quite like arrange union, You have to accept whatever it is!

once upon a time, i met a flower. she was so innocent, yet so wise. she was glitter and wildness. softness and sweet fragrance. she was a flock of fireflies that danced through the forest and swam naked in moonlight. she was the first soul i bared myself to, only one i was completely honest with about the things that shamed me...we wandered through the world in a bubble of our own making, floating free, full of pastels so colorful, full of fairy dust, sunbeams, and feathers. we drew people towards us like sirens in the water, wanting what we had. but we fluttered away like butterflies hopping from lily pad to lily pad, giggling all the while. we told each other the real hard truth, and listened, and laughed and cried out our hearts. when i was going through a tough time, she once told me to pick a place, anywhere in the world, and she’d be there with me, even if she couldn't be...she was my flower. she taught me about generosity, about giving with deep trust that it would return somehow somewhere. and it always does. she taught me to love people for who they are, and to just let them be, in their own flower field. i met a flower. she taught me to live in love. to bloom, and listen. now i am alive, in love

I realize in this moment that the hardest part about ending an abusive relationship is that you aren't necessarily putting an end to the bad moments. The bad moments still rear their ugly heads every now and then. When you end an abusive relationship, it's the good moments you put an end to. In our marriage, the few terrifying incidents were blanketed by so many good ones, but now that our marriage is over, the blanket has lifted and all I'm left with are the worst pieces of him. When our marriage was once full of heart and flesh that cushioned the skeleton, all that's left is the skeleton now. Sharp, bony edges that slice right through me.

When you meet her, you will feel a serene breeze engulf you. When she smiles at you, the world pauses for a while. When she speaks, it feels like the nightingale is singing. She is extraordinarily pretty. She is beautiful as the rose flower. She is the fragrance of a million jasmine flowers. She is the sensitivity of the dew drops. She is the innocence of the blooming lily. She is the calm of the sylvan lake. She is the beautiful light of the candle flame. She is the wildness of the kadupul flower. She is the magic of the full moon night! When you meet her, you will forget all other girls that you ever met in the world. She is the most amazing and wonderful girl in the whole world. She is the Poet's Muse.

As I walked, I became aware of the strong odor of peonies and jasmine. I inhaled deeply to draw in the lovely bouquet. The scent was from the fresh flowers of a lush garden. The path opened into a courtyard, a tangle of peonies and jasmine framing the entrance, blooming in spectacular fashion. Silky petals brushed against my skin. The tension building in my neck and shoulders melted away as I entered a fairyland. The rustle of the night breeze joined the familiar voice of Teresa Teng echoing from invisible speakers. Beneath my feet, a path of moss-covered stones led to a circular platform surrounded by a large, shallow pond. The night garden was bursting with a palette of muted greens, starlit ivories, and sparkling golds: the verdant lichen and waxy lily pads in the pond, the snowy white peonies and jasmine flowers, and the metallic tones of the fireflies suspended in the air, the square-holed coins lining the floor of the pond, and the special golden three-legged creatures resting on the floating fronds. I knew these creatures from my childhood. The feng shui symbol of prosperity, Jin Chan was transformed into a golden toad for stealing the peaches of immortality. Jin Chan's three legs represented heave, earth, and humanity. Statues of him graced every Chinese home I had ever been in, for fortune was a visitor always in demand. Ma-ma had placed one near the stairs leading to the front door. The pond before me held eight fabled toads, each biting on a coin. If not for the subtle rise and fall of their vocal sacs, I would have thought them statues.

While disease had thus become an inhabitant of Lowood, and death its frequent visitor; while there was gloom and fear within its walls; while its rooms and passages steamed with hospital smells, the drug and the pastille striving vainly to overcome the effluvia of mortality, that bright May shone unclouded over the bold hills and beautiful woodland out of doors. Its garden, too, glowed with flowers: hollyhocks had sprung up tall as trees, lilies had opened, tulips and roses were in bloom; the borders of the little beds were gay with pink thrift and crimson double daisies; the sweetbriars gave out, morning and evening, their scent of spice and apples; and these fragrant treasures were all useless for most of the inmates of Lowood, except to furnish now and then a handful of herbs and blossoms to put in a coffin.

Inside, on a bed of black velvet, lay an exquisite perfume bottle designed from rose-colored glass caged in a silver overlay that twined about the glass like living vines. In the very center of the oval shaped bottle, the silver was formed into the image of a lily in full bloom. It was likely the most precious and expensive gift Lily had ever been given. She ran her fingertips over the delicate silver work before lifting the bottle from its velvet bed to allow the candlelight to shine through the rose-colored glass. She noticed then a folded slip of paper still in the box. Setting the perfume bottle in the valley of her lap, she lifted the paper and broke the tiny wax seal. In his precise, slanted script, Lord Harte had written: I was unforgivably remiss in not having a gift for you the other night. I chose the elements for this blend myself. It made me think of you. Lily brushed her thumb over the ink before setting the note back into the box. Then she shifted the bottle and removed the glass stopper. The scent wafting from the bottle was light, but heady. She noticed first the rich notes of clove and honey before her senses were claimed by the smooth, velvety scent of jasmine. Lily closed her eyes, allowing the aromatic infusion to settle into her awareness. There was another element hidden deep within the perfume. A layer of earthiness that warmed her blood. Sandalwood. Lily was enthralled. It was a complex and lovely scent. Floral and exotic, light and dark. Impossibly sensual. And it made him think of her. Something deep and fundamental spread through her core, and she understood why young ladies were warned so often not to accept gifts from gentlemen. It was a personal and intimate thing to acknowledge how he had wanted her to have something he chose himself.

There is a monstrous garden in the sky Nightly they sow it fresh. Nightly it springs, Luridly splendid, towards the moon on high. Red-poppy flares, and fire-bombs rosy-bright Shell-bursts like hellborn sunflowers, gold and white Lilies, long-stemmed, that search the heavens' height... They tend it well, these gardeners on wings! How rich these blossoms, hideously fair Sprawling above the shuddering citadel As though ablaze with laughter! Lord, how long Must we behold them flower, ruthless, strong Soaring like weeds the stricken worlds among Triumphant, gay, these dreadful blooms of hell? O give us back the garden that we knew Silent and cool, where silver daisies lie, The lovely stars! O garden purple-blue Where Mary trailed her skirts amidst the dew Of ageless planets, hand-in-hand with You And Sleep and Peace walked with Eternity..... But here I sit, and watch the night roll by. There is a monstrous garden in the sky! (written during an air raid, London, midnight, October 1941)

What is this?" Kathleen asked, picking up the bottle and viewing it suspiciously. "It's a beautifier," Pandora said. "Bloom of Rose," Cassandra chimed in. Kathleen gasped as she realized what it was. "It's rouge. She had never even held a container of rouge before. Setting it on the counter, she said firmly, "No." "But Kathleen-" "No to rouge," she said, "now and for all time." "We need to enhance our complexions," Pandora protested. "It won't do any harm," Cassandra chimed in. "The bottle says that Bloom of Rose is 'delicate and inoffensive'... It's written right there, you see?" "The comments you would receive if you wore rouge in public would assuredly not be delicate or inoffensive. People would assume you were a fallen woman. Or worse, an actress." Pandora turned to Devon. "Lord Trenear, what do you think?" "This is one of those times when it's best for a man to avoid thinking altogether," he said hastily. "Bother," Cassandra said. Reaching for a white glass pot with a gilded top, she gave it to Kathleen. "We found this for you. It's lily pomatum, for your wrinkles." "I don't have wrinkles," Kathleen said with dawning indignation. "Not yet," Pandora allowed. "But someday you will.

They waited at the back door until the storm clouds passed. The sky was violet and the light was silver. Alice followed her mother into the garden that was glossy with rain. They came to a bush her mother had planted recently. When Alice last took notice, it was just a tumble of bright green leaves. Now, after the rain, the bush was thick with fragrant white flowers. She studied them in bewilderment. 'Thought you might like these,' her mother said. 'Is it magic?' Alice reached out to touch one of the petals. 'The best kind.' Her mother nodded. 'Flower magic.' Alice bent down to get as close as she could. 'What are they, Mama?' 'Storm lilies. Just like the night you were born. They only flower after a good downpour.' Alice leant down and studied them closely. Their petals were flung open, leaving their centers fully exposed. 'They can't exist without rain?' Alice asked, straightening up. Her mother considered her for a moment before nodding. 'When I was in your father's truck the night you were born, they were growing wild by the road. I remember seeing them in bloom in the storm.' She looked away but Alice saw her mother's eyes fill. 'Alice,' her mother began. 'I planted the storm lilies here for a reason.' Alice nodded. 'Storm lilies are a sign of expectation. Of the goodness that can come from hardship.

At the sight of Ruth, singing and crying in the moonlight, they say Jacob Wyld crouched wordlessly and planted seeds at her feet, in the earth between the roots of the gum tree. What grew from that night, where Ruth's tears fell to the earth, was a heath of wild vanilla lilies, and an equally heady love affair between Ruth and Jacob. They met at the river whenever Ruth could get away. He brought her flower seeds and she brought him whatever meager food scraps she could sneak from the house. Soon Ruth had enough seeds to till a small, shaded corner of dirt near the house, where a nearly dead, lone wattle tree stood. The dirt was so dry it took her a month to soften it with whatever water she could carry from the river. Eventually, the wattle tree exploded into flower, a winter blaze of sweet yellow. Ruth fell to her knees at the sight. The scent floated all the way into town. Bees droned around the tree, drunk on its nectar. Beneath the wattle were circles of green shoots. Ruth sketched each one in her small notebook. As they bloomed, so different to the foxgloves and snowdrops of her mother's songs, Ruth noted down what they meant to her, adapting the Victorian language of flowers. The strange and beautiful native flowers, able to flourish in the harshest conditions, enchanted Ruth; none more so than the deep scarlet flowers with red centres the color of the darkest blood. Meaning, Ruth wrote in her notebook, have courage, take heart.

Tonight Ray will tape the the drenched oasis inside of the silver bowl that sits on the top of the candelabra and fill it with the pale green hydrangeas, pink English garden roses, lilies of the valley, and extravagant lavender sweet peas that R.L., the local florist/antique dealer, delivered a few hours ago. The flowers are all soaking in their respective sugar water jugs in her kitchen- out of the direct sunlight, of course- as is the oasis which she'll mold into every bowl and vase in the house with a similar arrangement. She's even going to make an arrangement in a flat sweetgrass basket to hang on the front door and a round little pomander of pale green hydrangea with a sheer white ribbon for Little Hilda to hold as she greets the guests in the foyer. Ray is tempted to snip the last blossoms of gardenias growing secretly behind Cousin Willy's shed. In her estimation they are the quintessential wedding flower, with their intoxicating fragrance and their delicate cream petals surrounded by those dark, waxy leaves. She bought the seedlings when R.L. and the gals weren't looking at the Southern Gardener's Convention in Atlanta four years ago, and no one has any idea she's been growing them. Sometimes she worries that the fragrance will give her away, but they bloom the same time as the confederate jasmine, which grows along the lattice work of the shed, and she can always blame the thick smell on them. It would take a truly trained nose to pick the gardenias out, and Ray possesses the trained nose of the bunch.

Even though the wreckage had been described to her, and though she was still in pain, the sight horrified and amazed her, and there was something she noticed about it that particularly gave her the creeps. Over everything—up through the wreckage of the city, in gutters, along the riverbanks, tangled among tiles and tin roofing, climbing on charred tree trunks—was a blanket of fresh, vivid, lush, optimistic green; the verdancy rose even from the foundations of ruined houses. Weeds already hid the ashes, and wild flowers were in bloom among the city’s bones. The bomb had not only left the underground organs of plants intact; it had stimulated them. Everywhere were bluets and Spanish bayonets, goose-foot, morning glories and day lilies, the hairy-fruited bean, purslane and clotbur and sesame and panic grass and feverfew. Especially in a circle at the center, sickle senna grew in extraordinary regeneration, not only standing among the charred remnants of the same plant but pushing up in new places, among bricks and through cracks in the asphalt. It actually seemed as if a load of sickle-senna seed had been dropped along with the bomb.

My garden aboundeth in pleasant nooks And fragrance is over it all; For sweet is the smell of my old, old books In their places against the wall. Here is a folio that's grim with age And yellow and green with mould; There's the breath of the sea on every page And the hint of a stanch ship's hold. And here is a treasure from France la belle Exhaleth a faint perfume Of wedded lily and asphodel In a garden of song abloom. And this wee little book of Puritan mien And rude, conspicuous print Hath the Yankee flavor of wintergreen, Or, may be, of peppermint. In Walton the brooks a-babbling tell Where the cheery daisy grows, And where in meadow or woodland dwell The buttercup and the rose. But best beloved of books, I ween, Are those which one perceives Are hallowed by ashes dropped between The yellow, well-thumbed leaves. For it's here a laugh and it's there a tear, Till the treasured book is read; And the ashes betwixt the pages here Tell us of one long dead. But the gracious presence reappears As we read the book again, And the fragrance of precious, distant years Filleth the hearts of men. Come, pluck with me in my garden nooks The posies that bloom for all; Oh, sweet is the smell of my old, old books In their places against the wall!

Freeze Frame, with Forsynthia You will bind me in my aquarelle, my skin blue as Canterbury bells. Call me mademoiselle before you execute, like the hand- tinted photo of the dancer, Margarete Gertrude Zelle, arms scissoring the air, fending bullets and flowers as she pirouettes. You will find me in the zero hour sipping a whiskey sour with a cherry, my hair yellow, not sallowed or frizzed like the Bishop's flower. In a bell-shaped dress trimmed in snow-white florets, I smell of fever, soil as I pose in the doorcase. You refer to me as daughter of gnawed bones I am property of _______. A profile in the slanted rain. I am versatile. You call me Lily of the Nile, fingering umbels as you scour the floor in search of my shadow. Hours sift and flow and form a canted frame where you lean one elbow statuesque as a window sash. You've captured me, you say, mid-bloom, in your eye frame, in the process of photograph and pose and polyphonic prose, the kitchen lit by my ante- bellum skirt, the yellow spikes of forsythia going up in flame. Simone Muench, Notebook. Knife. Mentholatum. (New Michigan Press 2003)

What if I had made different choices from the start? What if I had stuck around to watch another year of seasons spin here in Oxford, staying to see the daffodils bloom or to wander beneath the privet tunnel hand in hand with Fisher? What if we had kept right on kissing until the naked ladies emerged near the Osage orange? What if I had lingered long enough to see cape jasmine arrive, her voluptuous white bundles an aromatic call for summer love? Or even longer, when the spider lilies burst open in the fall and the yellow autumn light fell low among missy roots? What if I had stayed through winter, forming snow angels with my lover beneath the icy cedar boughs? What if I had not let fear defeat me after Fisher knelt before me in my mother's backyard garden, ring in his hand and happy-ever-after in his heart?

What if I had made different choices from the start? What if I had stuck around to watch another year of seasons spin here in Oxford, staying to see the daffodils bloom or to wander beneath the privet tunnel hand in hand with Fisher? What if we had kept right on kissing until the naked ladies emerged near the Osage orange? What if I had lingered long enough to see cape jasmine arrive, her voluptuous white bundles an aromatic call for summer love? Or even longer, when the spider lilies burst open in the fall and the yellow autumn light fell low among mossy roots? What if I had stayed through winter, forming snow angels with my lover beneath the icy cedar boughs? What if I had not let fear defeat me after Fisher knelt before me in my mother's backyard garden, ring in his hand and happy-ever-after in his heart?

It was nice to meet you, Lily Bloom. I hope you defy the odds of most dreams and accomplish yours.

Cycles exist because they are excruciating to break. It takes an astronomical amount of pain and courage to disrupt a familiar pattern. Sometimes it seems easier to just keep running in the same familiar circles, rather than facing the fear of jumping and possibly not landing on your feet.” ― Lily Bloom

But then this morning I had to tell him goodbye. And he held me and kissed me so much, I thought I might die if he let go. But I didn't die. Because he let go and here I am. Still living. Still breathing. Just barely.” -Lily Bloom

He's a broken man, but he isn't broken because of me. He was broken before he met me. Sometimes people think if they love a broken person enough, they can be what finally repairs them, but the problem with that is the other person just ends up broken, too.

It was nice to meet you, Lily Bloom. I hope you defy the odds of most dreams and accomplish yours..

It was strong, whatever was between us, thick, like the wet air and the smell of every green thing ready to bloom.

When Colleen Hoover said, “It was nice meeting you, Lily Bloom. I hope you defy the odds of most dreams and actually accomplish yours,” I felt that.

Do/Do Not I sniff the blooming tiger lily, two tongues sprung open from one mouth. I poison the river unintentionally. I walk on the designated paths. I splice the mountain, its body and mouth gaping. I collect rainwater in a wheelbarrow. I line the whale’s belly with gifts until they rupture its stomach. I water the strawberries. Again I fill my gas tank with dead things, generations spun together until shiny. I feed the ducks fresh lettuce. I maneuver the dead squirrel on the road, mark the moment when creature becomes meat. I accept that my love is a poisonous flower, routinely fatal. I calculate the force of loving in each glittering death. All day on this land, in the deep forest, the electric greens and still-wet mud writhe with life. The pond gurgles and whispers. Everyone here knows to shudder when they see me coming. The mangos arrive unbruised at the grocery store. The wolves should start running.

Climbing Roses have so much use, as well as beauty, in a garden, that my advice is, wherever there is an excuse for having one,[132] plant it there. They do finely on the south side of a house, on arches, summer-houses and trellises. I have a trellis along one side of a grass walk three hundred and fifty feet long. At each post are planted two Roses, a Crimson Rambler and a Wichuraiana. The Wichuraiana blossoms when the Rambler is done. Imagine the beauty of this trellis when the Roses are in bloom! On the other side of this walk there is a border four feet wide, with shrubs at the back, filled, all of the three hundred and fifty feet, with many varieties of perennials, also with Lilies and annuals planted in wherever a foot of space can be found.

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Lilies bloom when we laugh together.

I was proud of Lucian. That much was certain. He'd come through today in a big way, creating not only two towers of croquembouche, swathed in glittering strands of angel-fine spun sugar, but also luscious ice creams paired with delicate butter cookies and mangoes to look like blooming lilies.

This analogy is going to seem out of left field, but bear with me. My husband, Jon, and I have a peace lily plant that we bought when we first moved into our home. It was always in the front room. It got frequent care and adequate water, but it never bloomed. The foliage was green and beautiful, but the plant remained the same. It didn’t die, but it didn’t grow, either. It just existed. Then one day I thought to bring it into the kitchen and put it in the bay window with our fresh herbs. Within less than a week, I noticed the first signs of a tightly wrapped white flower bud waiting to bloom. A couple of days later, up popped another bud. Who would have thought that all that plant needed was a little more light to thrive? It instantly struck me that there was a beautiful analogy for my own life here. This peace lily had everything it needed to survive, but it didn’t have the missing piece that it needed to thrive. I couldn’t help but think of all the times in my life when I had given myself only the bare minimum that I needed to survive and offered myself none of the things that I needed to thrive.

However, as I reread her words I was none the less a little disappointed to realize how little of our person remains in our correspondence. Of course the characters we trace express our thoughts, as do our features; it is always a process of thinking that confronts us. But even so, in a person, thought appears to us only after being filtered through the bloom of the face, flowering like a water-lily only on the surface. And this, it has to be said, does modify it considerably. And perhaps one of the causes of our perpetual disappointment in love is this perpetual slippage, which causes every anticipation of the ideal being whom we love to be confronted at each meeting by a flesh-and-blood person who already has little in common with our dream. And then, when we expect something from this person, what we receive from her is a letter where very little of the person herself remains, as in those letters used in algebraic formulae, where there remains none of the qualities characterized by the arithmetical numbers, which themselves already no longer encapsulated the properties of the fruit or the flowers that were being assessed.

On either side of the laneway, rain-soaked bushes burst into a flurry of white flowers. Alice's first breaths were filled with lightning and the scent of storm lilies in bloom. You were the true love I needed to wake me from a curse, Bun, her mother would say to finish the story. You're my fairytale.

yet not a quarter so well as you display yourself, for night-blooming dara lilies would weep with envy to see you stroll beside the moonlit water, as I would do, and make myself a bard to sing your praises by this very moon.

Well, I would leave the laundry out; it added a certain atmosphere of neglect, as did the lily pad pond overtaken by ivy, the roses choked with weeds. A few hydrangea blossoms hung brown and dry on the shrubs, rattling sadly in the breeze. It was well hidden, the splendor of what had been, and that was fine with me. I could still remember Gran's garden out back the way it used to be- goldfish in the pond; hydrangea blooms heavy and blue, the color of the sky; sunflowers bent down upon themselves.

Earth, air, fire, and water," he began. "The ancient Greek philosopher Empedocles says that these four elements are the roots of everything." Here was the garden he inherited from Leah. Celia, who mostly tended it, called it her sculpture in four dimensions, the fourth being time. Perhaps all sculpture changed over time, with decay and dissolution setting in, rust and chipping and breakage. But marble or bronze evolved so slowly, and their changes were unintended, while the garden was always in visible flux, each morning a new unfolding. Celia always said that the flower beds were a progression of looping actions: each plant opening, blooming, fading, setting seed, drooping, falling; and each seed rooting, sprouting, budding, blooming. And the seasons, the moons and days, the pendulum of darkness and light, the beat of the cardinal's song. Was the earth, then, our real timepiece? Stop, Pindar. Pay attention. "But Empedocles also said that our spirits have successive lives, born sometimes as the fair-tressed laurel trees, sometimes as lions who live in the golden grass...." A shifting of the light through the trees made Pindar notice the Queen Anne's lace in its brass vase. Constellations of tiny white stars swirled in a galactic umbrella the size of his hand- who was above? Who below? Beside their lacy flaring explosives symmetry, the black-eyed Susans gazed at him with their fierce yellow. Wide-open, with none of the hidden turns and caverns of the lilies whose trumpets would be deep enough to incubate in, or at least hide one's thoughts in, though their scent would be too strong for the dinner table.

But friendship meant you at least planted the seed for them, love meant allowing them the ability to weed their own garden until it was something healthy and thriving, blooming and bright and smelling of heather and tiger lilies.

would I be as strong as that once I did that thing Christophe was talking about? Blooming? Would I smell like a bakery item? or was that just him? Did he use pie filling for cologne?

14 years ago I was born in the shadow of this mountain, given the name Mary Call. - Mary Call in Where the Lilies Bloom.

There was a curiously ferocious quality to their lovemaking, as if it were a competition to see which of them could elicit the greater response from the other. It was as though they were trying to scour their mark into each other, like lovers’ initials charred into the trunk of a tree, relic of a lost romance. Teasing, taunting, titillating, they grappled together long after the fire had burned down to embers and the night-blooming flowers on the lake had opened their petals to the night sky, perfuming the air with their too-sweet fragrance. Afterwards, Penelope lay awake, feigning the regular breath of sleep. Beside her, she could sense that Alex was doing the same.

All I know is that I am walking on a bridge. Amidst the mist the point where it started appears faded and the bridge ends in bright light that makes it too hard to even look. I need to cross this and I am walking. But, my Lord, I am tired! I love this blue; I wish if I could see the depth of the river beneath, come back to the surface, float and then to be carried away by the tranquil waves to the banks where a thousand lilies will bloom, look at the sun and say 'we love you'. O Lord, remember, they are my eyes that longed for a life the boon of your sight!

You are its crowning flower, the dark bloom that promises both rebirth and an avenging hand.

If the peace lily stops flowering, just be patient. It will bloom again.

However, the young woman claimed to not know exactly what it was she had done that this person had seen. With the cops earlier, she insisted she had done nothing. The police on the scene weren’t convinced. Kayla could tell by the side looks they gave each other. Honestly, she wasn’t convinced either. Jessie was holding something back. Desperately, she tried to soothe the young woman’s frazzled nerves in the hope that she would open up to her. Attempts at light conversation were rewarded with short answers, followed

Christmas   ETTIE

She looked up at the sky and the scorching sun. It was blazing hot and the smell of blood and piss was in the air, as several human heads were being collected in buckets. “It will soon be finished,” she thought.

It’s not the people who leave or die that suffer the worst,” he said to me. “It’s those who are left behind, those of us who are left with the memories of what we had and cannot ever again hold in our arms. The  best thing we can do is hold them in our hearts. It’s the only way to move on, to live on. That is how we honor them. That is the only way to survive; with their memory in our hearts. Moving on doesn’t mean we forget them.

cautiously. “Mark Rothko? Is that when he got Alizée’s paintings from Eleanor Roosevelt?” “He gets the painting from the other one.” I sat up, senses heightened. “What other one?” “She gives him the one he carries with him all the time.” “Is it big?” I asked. “Red, white, and blue? Or does it look like lily pads?” “Bloom. That is where we go first. We are worried she is . . .” Grand-mère made a circular motion with her forefinger. “She is not all there in the head.” “The painting looks like blooms? Like flowers?” Lily Pads could be interpreted that way. “Did you go with him to visit Eleanor Roosevelt?

A lily does not lose its beauty because it blooms in muddy waters.

Noah was a funeral pyre. He was burning. The flames rose to staggering heights and blazed in white, hot tongues. Jeremie had once told him a story of the burial rites of the Norse. They’d burn their dead, believing the high smoke carried their loved ones’ souls to Valhalla. Noah was beyond Valhalla. Beyond the creamy spaciousness above the clouds, beyond the limits of the very earth. He floated among the stars, joined them in holy communion, knew each one by name. Then they were within him, scores of them, bright and hot, turning his ribs into a furnace as they shifted and created constellations in his soul. And all the while, the summer sang in his lungs. There was no space between him and Jeremie. Where one ended, the other began, and still Jeremie pulled him closer like the moon pulls the tide, gripping him tightly in the same way he’d gripped Noah’s heart, had gripped his entire being.

I’m surprised you’re here.” Her mouth curved upward. “I warned you I’d be joining you.” He ignored the heat that spread inside him at the sight of her smile. “That’s just it.” Her smile grew wider. “A politician who keeps his word—what a remarkable aberration in the species.” “How could I have forgotten that keen wit of yours?” he marveled. “Yeah, I’m full of surprises. Might want to remember that.” Then, throwing caution to the wind, he let his eyes roam slowly over her, lingering. She’d have to be blind not to see the hunger in them. Which she clearly wasn’t. She retreated a step. He followed, his longer legs closing the distance, until his body almost brushed hers. That cool composer of Lily’s was unraveling, no matter how hard she struggled to pretend otherwise. The signs were there, in the fine trembling of her limbs, in the flush that stole over her porcelain smooth cheeks. Fierce satisfaction filled Sean at her involuntary reaction. He dipped his head until his lips hovered, a soft whisper away. “Lily?” “Yes?” There was a husky catch to her voice. Sean’s fingers reached up and traced the rosy bloom on her cheek. Was it the sweet flush of desire that made her skin so soft? he wondered, his eyes and fingers memorizing every detail, every sensation. God, he’d die for a taste of her. But Sean denied himself the pleasure. He raised his head, putting distance between himself and his greatest temptation, and forced himself to lower his hand. At the loss of contact, Lily’s head jerked, as if coming out of a trance. Sean stepped back before she could flay him alive. “You’re looking a little pink, Lily. I’ve got some zinc oxide in my bag. I’d be happy to put some on you. Especially on those hard to reach places.” He gave her a casual smile and pulled his sunglasses from the breast pocket of his T-shirt, ignoring the violent thudding of his heart against the cotton fabric. His hands shook, too, racked with tremors of need. Somehow, he managed to settle his shades across the slightly crooked bridge of his nose, before shoving them deep into his pocket, out of sight. Damn Sean and his effect on me, Lily swore silently. He had only to bestow the paltriest of caresses and she nearly swooned. Even more galling was the fact that she was equally helpless before Sean’s verbal taunts. The thought of Sean’s hands, slick with lotion, gliding over her body in long, sweeping caresses had her pulse racing. Lily’s voice was filled with contempt—never mind that it was self-directed—as she spoke. “You know, you and John Granger should get to know each other. You could compare notes on really great pickup lines. By the way, Sean, your nose? Does it trouble you still? I hope so.

She was almost monosyllabic among the buckets of mimosa and lilies a quarter of an hour later. The florist fussed and fiddled, holding blooms against Robin’s hair and accidentally letting drops of cold, greenish water fall from the long stem of a rose onto her cream sweater.

There are times when Los Angeles is the most magical city on Earth. When the Santa Ana winds sweep through and the air is warm and so, so clear. When the jacaranda trees bloom in the most brilliant lilac violet. When the ocean sparkles on a warm February day and you're pushing fine grains of sand through your bare toes while the rest of the country is hunkered down under blankets slurping soup. But other times, like when the jacaranda trees drop their blossoms in an eerie purple rain, Los Angeles feels like only a half-formed dream. Like perhaps the city was founded as a strip mall in the early 1970s and has no real reason to exist. An afterthought from the designer of some other, better city. A playground made only for attractive people to eat expensive salads.

Good night, Major,” she said. Just when she would have turned and run inside he caught hold of her hand. “Tell me why your brother let you come all this way by yourself.” The words had the tone of an order, however politely they were framed, and Lily tried, without success, to withdraw her fingers from his grip. “I am almost nineteen years old,” she responded briskly. “I didn’t ask Rupert’s permission.” Guiltily, she thought of how she’d left Spokane, where Rupert lived now, without telling her adopted brother good-bye or thanking him for his many kindnesses. Another slow, smoldering grin spread across the major’s face. “So you ran away,” he guessed with distressing accuracy. “No,” Lily lied. “In any case, this is none of your business.” “Isn’t it?” Major Halliday turned her hand in his and began stroking the tender flesh on the inside of her wrist with the pad of his thumb. The motion produced a series of disturbing sensations within Lily, not the least of which was a warm heaviness in her breasts and a soft ache in the depths of her femininity. The door of the rooming house opened, and Mrs. McAllister, bless her nosy soul, peered out. “Time to come in, Lily. Say good-night to your young man.” Lily glared at Caleb. “He’s not my young man,” she said firmly. The day she took up with a soldier would be the day irises bloomed in hell. Caleb’s expression was as cocky as ever. “Not yet,” he replied, in a voice so low that even the landlady’s sharp ears could not have caught it. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Lily.” Lily whirled in frustration and stomped into the house. It had been a perfectly horrible day, and she was glad it was over. After

I’m not a loose woman,” she said firmly, without preamble, “and I won’t be your mistress, no matter how many boxes of chocolates you give me.” Caleb rested one hand on the gnarled trunk of the tree she leaned against and bent toward her. “That’s the last thing I think, Miss Chalmers,” he informed her. “That you’re a loose woman, I mean.” “Is it?” She blushed again. Fetchingly, he thought. “You’ve kissed me twice today, Major Halliday. And tonight at the table, you—you—” “I touched you,” Caleb said softly. “And you let me.” Lily sighed. “I don’t know what possessed me.” “I do,” came the easy reply. “You’re supposed to feel like that when the right man touches you, Lily. It’s natural.” She stared up at him. “It is?” Caleb nodded. “Not only that, but it gets better.” Lily swallowed. “It couldn’t.” “But it does,” Caleb argued gently. “One day soon, when you’re ready, I’ll show you.” “It seems to me that you expect rather a lot for a pound of chocolates,” Lily protested. Caleb laughed. “Rebel while you can,” he said. “Very soon things will be different.” She looked as though she didn’t believe her ears. “Of all the audacious, low-minded—” He ran his thumb along her jawline, delighting in her fury and her fire. Taming her was going to be pure joy. “Yes?” It took a mere brush of his lips to make her tilt her head back for his kiss. Caleb wondered if she was sophisticated enough to know how much he wanted her. He’d kissed her thoroughly when she finally placed both hands against his chest and pushed. “It’s hopeless,” she gasped out defiantly. “So stop trying to convince me!” Caleb smiled and allowed one of his hands to stray, ever so lightly, across her breast. He felt her nipple grow instantly taut against his knuckles. “I mean to have you, Lily Chalmers,” he warned, his voice barely more than a breath. “The time will come when you’ll stand at your window watching for me.” She gaped at him. “I see we understand each other,” he said, putting his hat back on and stepping back to see Lily better. She was like some delicate, exotic flower blooming in the moonlight. “Suppose I tell you that I never want to see you again?” she managed after a long time, her voice a breathless whisper. Caleb knew he looked a lot more confident than he felt. “You won’t,” he answered. “What makes you so sure?” “The kiss we just shared.” “You say and do the most outrageous things, Major Halliday.” He

A bird with jewel-toned plumage cleaned its beak in the garden’s bird bath, and Noah’s eyes followed it as it shot away to join the other feathered troubadours in the trees. Their high, staccato notes were the only sounds now. It was one of the attributes Noah most loved about his home: the quiet. The clouds would hang low and move at a languid pace, changing form every so often as if heaven were writing coded messages to the earth, and one could have the sense of becoming lost in an endless, tranquil moment of time, as if a grain of sand within an hourglass had suddenly paused midair.

The unusual, poetic place names dazzled Trifa: the Land of the Leopard; the Sea of Doubt; the Path of Dreams; the City of Waiting; Hope Mountain; Doves’ Shore; Violinistan; the Blue Butterfly; the Garden of the Stars’ Suicide; the Lily Pond; the Town of Blooms; the Stream of Sadness; the Tiger Garden; and many others. One glance at the map told Trifa she was dealing with an Imaginative Creature, one living aloof from the world and unaware of all the other Imaginative Creatures.

I picture myself standing between two boxes. From one the stench is unbearably brutal, bellowing out dark wisps of death. And the other box is full of white lilies. Their angelic blooms are fully stretched and sending out perfume, sweet and pure. A box of bitterness. A box of grace.

The lilies of the field close up their blooms at night and rest patiently for the next day, but we, cloaked in ghostly light, make tomorrow’s troubles today’s and tonight’s instead. The devices we carry to bed to make us feel connected and safe actually prevent us from trusting in the One who knows our needs and who alone can protect us through the dangers and sorrows of any night.

For fifty years I plodded through the vale of lust and strife, Then through my dreams there flashed a ray of the old sweet peaceful life. No scarlet-tasseled hat of state can vie with soft repose; Grand mansions do not taste the joys that the poor man’s cabin knows. I hate the threatening clash of arms when fierce retainers throng, I loathe the drunkard’s revels and the sound of fife and song; But I love to seek a quiet nook, and some old volume bring Where I can see the wildflowers bloom and hear the birds in spring.

Beauty isn't just about how much makeup you wear or your hair or your clothes. Beauty is shown in how kind you are. How you care about other people. In being intelligent. Those things make you beautiful.

She closed her eyes for a minute, then put her feet back down and peeled some purple varnish off her thumbnail. “I don’t know, Louisa. Perhaps I’ll just follow your amazing example and do all the exciting things you do.” I took three deep breaths, just to prevent myself from stopping the car on the motorway. Nerves, I told myself. It was just her nerves. And then, just to annoy her, I turned on Radio 2 really loudly and kept it there the rest of the way. • • • We found Four Acres Lane with help from a local dog walker, and pulled up outside Fox’s Cottage, a modest white building with a thatched roof. Outside, scarlet roses tumbled around an iron arch at the start of the garden path, and delicately colored blooms fought for space in neatly tended beds. A small hatchback car sat in the drive. “She’s gone down in the world,” said Lily, peering out. “It’s pretty.” “It’s a shoebox.” I sat, listening to the engine tick down. “Listen, Lily. Before we go in. Just don’t expect too much,” I said. “Mrs. Traynor’s sort of formal. She takes refuge in manners. She’ll probably speak to you like she’s a teacher. I mean, I don’t think she’ll hug you, like Mr. Traynor did.” “My grandfather is a hypocrite.” Lily sniffed. “He makes out like you’re the greatest thing ever, but really he’s just pussy-whipped.” “And please don’t use the term ‘pussy-whipped.’” “There’s no point pretending to be someone I’m not,” Lily said sulkily. We sat there for a while. I realized that neither of us wanted to be the one to walk up to the door. “Shall I try to call her one more time?” I said, holding up my phone. I’d tried twice that morning but it had gone straight to voice mail. “Don’t tell her straight away,” she said suddenly. “Who I am, I mean. I just . . . I just want to see who she is. Before we tell her.” “Sure,” I said, softening. And before I could say anything else, Lily was out of the car and striding up toward the front gate, her hands bunched into fists like a boxer about to enter a ring. • • • Mrs. Traynor had gone quite, quite gray. Her hair, which had been tinted dark brown, was now white and short, making her look much older than she actually was, or like someone recently recovered from a serious illness. She was probably a stone lighter than when

It was nice meeting you, Lily Bloom. I hope you defy the odds of most dreams and actually accomplish yours.

So what's your middle name, Lily Bloom?" I groan, which makes him perk up. "You mean it gets worse?" I drop my head in my hands and nod. "Rose?" I shake my head. "Worse." "Violet?" "I wish." I cringe and then mutter, "Blossom." There's a moment of silence. "Goddamn," he says softly. Yeah. Blossom is my mother's maiden name and my parents thought it was fate that their last names were synonyms. So of course when they had me, a flower was their first choice." "Your parents must be real assholes.

Anxiety and apprehension should have been the furthest things from my mind. But because I am a pessimist and must always keep sticking my tongue in pessimism the way you do a sore tooth I couldn't help thinking that it was all too easy. Things just aren't this easy for people...Something or somebody is bound to come and spoil it...so you can just get yourself ready for it.

Friends were another thing Miss Breathitt believed in and thought wonderful. Friends, she said, improved talents and happiness and all of us should take care to make some.

I want to run my fingers through your curly hair and kiss your soft lips, and neck, and bosom, and…” Luke seemed lost in a daze. “And…?” Allison whispered, searching to know more of his intentions. Her skin was soft as he caressed it with his fingers. He leaned in closer to her, breathing in her fresh perfume. He touched her ear with his lips and whispered slowly and gently into it. The corners of his mouth went up as he talked, and Allison’s cheeks flustered, red and hot. She was hot with desire, stirred by his words. She no longer frowned, pondering the feeble life. Instead, she grabbed him tightly and kissed him. Her lips sank into his, her tongue searching and finding his. It was early in the morning, and through the thin, white curtains the room was flooded with a warm glow. They lay completely naked on the bed, their bodies tangled and ruffling the white sheets, searching each other for more. More to touch, more to kiss, more to pleasure, more to love.

Here's to the roses and lilies in bloom.” His lips curved. “You in my arms and I in your room. A door that is locked, a key which is lost. A bird, and a bottle, and a bed badly tossed.

Kane picked up the vase and brought the flowers to his nose, breathing them in. Most people said calla lilies had no fragrance. He always disagreed, picking up the faintest of clean, sweet, floral scents. Pain slashed again across his heart as he recalled sending a similar bouquet to Avery after his first dinner at La Bella Luna. The tears started to roll down his cheeks as he looked closer at the blooms. There was no way whoever sent them could have known this arrangement was his favorite or that it had been the one he'd chosen to use when he'd apologized to Avery all those years ago. The pain of Avery's loss rolled through him again, becoming too much. He closed the front door behind him and set the flowers on the nearest end table, grabbing a tissue from the box beside them. It was then he noticed a notecard hidden among the flowers, having missed it amid the beautiful blooms.

No, they were," Avery said, clearly confusing her. As he waited for someone to answer the phone, he gave Janice his most cocky grin, a very clear watch-me-get-what-I-want expression. "La Bella Luna, can I help you?" The deep rich timbre turned him on instantly, and his gaze strayed to the corner of his desk, Janice completely forgotten. "Good Morning, this is Avery Adams. Who do I have the pleasure of speaking with?" He already knew the answer, he just wanted to hear Kane's voice again. Avery thought about Kane's hands and how competently he'd handled that bottle of wine. He imagined them using the same care as he picked up the phone from the cradle. The air in the room sizzled, his heartbeat picked up, and his body grew hard with need. He had never in his life been so immediately taken with another. Avery prayed Kane might be at least bi-sexual. Straight men were much harder to work into his bed—not impossible, but harder—and he definitely wanted Kane Dalton in his bed. "Hello, Mr. Adams. This Kane Dalton, would you prefer I transfer this call to someone else?" The soothing voice on the other end of the phone became tense. "No, you're who I was hoping to speak with. It seems you and I may have gotten off on the wrong foot, and I'd like to set things right between us," Avery said, adjusting his gaze to stare out the open window. "I have no issue with you, sir," Kane responded back immediately. "There's a large bouquet of rather expensive lilies sitting in my office that might say otherwise." He cut his eyes back to the flowers on the small conference table. Kane didn't respond this time, there was just silence. Good. Kane got a taste of his own medicine. "Listen, I'd like to book a regular table in your restaurant a couple of days a week. It doesn't have to be the same days each week, but I thoroughly enjoyed myself a few nights ago and got reacquainted with several families from my youth." He was met with more silence, then he heard the rustle of pages being turned. "Sir, I'm sorry, but I just don't have—" "I'll make it worth your while." Avery cut him off, his eyes still on the flowers, but seeing the man who sent them instead of the lovely blooms. "It's not that, sir. We're just incredibly booked." Kane started with the excuses again, but Avery wasn't taking no for an answer. "Please lose the sir. My name's Avery. I'd like you to use it." Avery's voice turned lower and huskier as he spoke from his deepest desires. "Avery," Kane said as if testing the word. "We don't have the space available. We're booked solidly for several months." "No one's that booked," Avery called him on the lie, and left it right there between them. After a long extended pause, Kane finally answered, "You're right, let's get you in Monday and Wednesday evenings. Does that suit you?" "You sure do," Avery said. Now that he'd managed a firm reservation, it was time to draw Kane in. Not surprisingly, he was met with silence. "I'll take whatever days you offer." In fact, I'll take whatever you are willing to give. As the thought faded, Avery realized those were actually terrible days to be seen out and about. "Seven o'clock?" Kane asked, ignoring everything he said. "Whatever works," Avery replied. "All right, would you like to come in tomorrow night?" Kane asked. His tone was back to all business. "Absolutely!

Hello, Cass.” The words fell stiltedly from Luca’s lips. Cass had never heard him call her by her nickname before. He stopped several feet from her, probably waiting to see if she would bolt out of the garden and into the graveyard rather than be close to him. Cass smiled in response. She gathered her skirts and sat on one of two stone benches near the garden’s center. Luca approached her. He walked stiffly, as if he were still getting accustomed to his long arms and legs. “Sometimes I think we use more water in a day for our gardens than peasant families use for a month’s worth of cooking and washing.” Cass looked up at him. “Is there a water shortage I don’t know about?” She hoped he couldn’t tell she’d been crying. “No.” Just the faintest French accent colored the single word. Luca reached out to examine the beginning bud of a ruby-colored rose. The bloom snapped off in his hand. He twisted it around in his fingers. “I remember when you were a child. You used to have a nickname for all the flowers. You called the marigolds ‘fireflies,’ I recall, and lilies were ‘ladies’ purses.’” “I can’t believe you remember that,” Cass said.

Under Two Windows" I. AUBADE The dawn is here—and the long night through I have never seen thy face, Though my feet have worn the patient grass at the gate of thy dwelling-place. While the white moon sailed till, red in the west, it found the far world edge, No leaflet stirred of the leaves that climb to garland thy window ledge. Yet the vine had quivered from root to tip, and opened its flowers again, If only the low moon's light had glanced on a moving casement pane. Warm was the wind that entered in where the barrier stood ajar, And the curtain shook with its gentle breath, white as young lilies are; But there came no hand all the slow night through to draw the folds aside, (I longed as the moon and the vine-leaves longed!) or to set the casement wide. Three times in a low-hung nest there dreamed his five sweet notes a bird, And thrice my heart leaped up at the sound I thought thou hadst surely heard. But now that thy praise is caroled aloud by a thousand throats awake, Shall I watch from afar and silently, as under the moon, for thy sake? Nay—bold in the sun I speak thy name, I too, and I wait no more Thy hand, thy face, in the window niche, but thy kiss at the open door! II. NOCTURNE My darling, come!—The wings of the dark have wafted the sunset away, And there's room for much in a summer night, but no room for delay. A still moon looketh down from the sky, and a wavering moon looks up From every hollow in the green hills that holds a pool in its cup. The woodland borders are wreathed with bloom—elder, viburnum, rose; The young trees yearn on the breast of the wind that sighs of love as it goes. The small stars drown in the moon-washed blue but the greater ones abide, With Vega high in the midmost place, Altair not far aside. The glades are dusk, and soft the grass, where the flower of the elder gleams, Mist-white, moth-like, a spirit awake in the dark of forest dreams. Arcturus beckons into the east, Antares toward the south, That sendeth a zephyr sweet with thyme to seek for thy sweeter mouth. Shall the blossom wake, the star look down, all night and have naught to see? Shall the reeds that sing by the wind-brushed pool say nothing of thee and me? —My darling comes! My arms are content, my feet are guiding her way; There is room for much in a summer night, but no room for delay! Petry. (November 1912)

Your raised arms are the fleshy petals of a magnificent lily bursting into flower. It deeply dawns on you that this new world about to bloom is you. Deep

Cass returned her attention to the pendant. As she struggled to work the tiny clasp behind her neck, she thought about the day Luca had given it to her. She’d been in the garden, reading, when he had come around the front of the house, a pale lily cradled in his hands. “Grazie,” she’d said when he rested the lily next to her on the bench. Her eyes had flipped back to her book. She didn’t mean to ignore him, but she was at a good part in her story. “Cass.” He’d angled his head toward the back of the garden, where roses bloomed in the wooden trellis. Stuck among them was another pale pink lily. Cass had arched an eyebrow, but then given in and closed her book. She and Luca had played this game when she was younger, both at his family palazzo and at Agnese’s. Luca used to hide little presents for her and mark the hiding spots with lilies. A smile playing across her lips, Cass got up to look at the second pink lily that he had poked into the trellis. Behind the delicate petals, a gold box was tied to the wood. Inside it, this necklace. Cass remembered the soft touch of Luca’s hands and the tickle of his breath on her skin as he bent low to work the tiny clasp.

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That strange girl with that erratic red hair who once fell in love with a homeless guy and brought great shame upon her entire family. That would be me. I'm Lily Bloom, and Andrew was my father. -pg 4

And father of Lily Bloom—that strange girl with the erratic red hair who once fell in love with a homeless guy and brought great shame upon her entire family.

You don't like the name Lily?" I tilt my head and cock an eyebrow. "My last name... is Bloom." -pg 14

A two year old girl will have the same name no matter how old she gets. Names aren't something we eventually grow out of, Lily Bloom." -pg 14

Hello. My name is Lily Bloom, daughter of the late Andrew Bloom. Thank you for joining us today as we mourn his loss, I wanted to take a moment to honor his life by sharing with you five great things about my father. The first thing..." I look down at Ryle and shrug. "That's it." -pg 19

It was nice meeting you, Lily Bloom. I hope you defy the odds of most dreams and actually accomplish yours. -pg 26

Mom came out and found me lost in thought. “Do lilies bloom here in the summer?” I asked her. “I bet they do,” she said. “They’re pretty hardy. But they only bloom once a year.” I thought it over. “I think I want my name to be Lily,” I told her.

I'm so happy you're happy. That's all I've ever wanted for you. But I will say, nothing beats knowing I'm the one you get to be happy with now.

The garden awoke in spring, glorious. Rhubarb, bellwort, bloodroot, blue squill; violets carpeted the earth, and in the woods, trilliums, twayblade, cowslips, cress, lady's slipper, wild iris, wild ginger, wild pussy willows, wild, wild everything. Robert Trout and his fiancée, Lavender, walked often there, and by the river. Her mother's old haunts. All of it a wonder to Robert, for his constant travels over the past years had begun to render most landscapes an indistinct blur. He'd not attended closely to the earth's springtime bounties; there was never time. Now he was like a boy, exclaiming over each tender sprout, each clump of new moss, and "Look, here's one with a thousand tiny white stars." Lavender told him the names of the many early blooms. And their meanings. It was her school of flowers, she quipped. "And here is one named especially for you, Robert---a trout lily. For us." They stopped. She showed him its lovely mottled leaves, creamy belled petals. "And see," she continued, "how it bows its head, as if too bashful to reveal its face. And like we humans, these beauties sleep at night and open themselves in morning's light.

Es obvio que la sociedad ha elegido mal los héroes a los que adoramos, porque no me cabe duda de que es más fácil levantar un edificio que abandonar definitivamente la relación con un maltratador

The cold Camellia only, stiff and white, Rose without perfume, lily without grace, When chilling winter shows his icy face, Blooms for a world that vainly seeks delight.

Clarissa Harlowe is a larger form than all the heroines of the Protestant will descended from her: Jane Austen’s Elizabeth Bennet, Emma Woodhouse, Anne Elliot; Hawthorne’s Hester Prynne; George Eliot’s Dorothea Brooke; Thomas Hardy’s Sue Bridehead; Henry James’s Isabel Archer, Milly Theale; D. H. Lawrence’s Ursula Brangwen; E. M. Forster’s Margaret Schlegel; and Virginia Woolf’s Lily Briscoe.