Purple Orchid Quotes

How did you know?” “I…” Thomas swallowed hard, his attention fixed on the painting. “The truth?” “Please.” “You’ve got a dress with orchid blossoms embroidered on it. Ribbons in the deepest purple. You favor the color, but not nearly as much as I find myself favoring you.” He took a deep breath. “As to the stars? Those are what I prefer. More than medical practices and deductions. The universe is vast. A mathematical equation even I have no hope of solving. For there are no limits to the stars; their numbers are infinite. Which is precisely why I measure my love for you by them. An amount too boundless to count.

Be what nobody else can ever be...yourself.

The torture-wheel shall serve him even as these horses from Hell have served my blood-red lilies of Sotar and my vein-colored irises of Naat and my orchids from Uccastrog which were purple as the bruises of love.

Julia and Sallie and I all had new dresses. Do you want to hear about them? Julia's was cream satin and gold embroidery and she wore purple orchids. It was a DREAM and came from Paris, and cost a million dollars. Sallie's

She's worked alongside him as they built their house on the vacant lot behind the sweet house and cultivated a small but fertile patch of cassava and sweet potatoes. Along the side wall of the house, a paradise of colors: tender pink hibiscus, fiery flamingo flowers, delicate purple orchids, and plump, juicy red protea.

I thought of Theo, the sleepy warmth of him in the dark, waking slowly like a night-blooming orchid, his sprawling limbs as tender and sinuous as purple-bruised petals.

Our garden was large and beautiful as that garden in the Bible - the tree of life grew there. But it had gone wild. The paths were overgrown and a smell of dead flowers mixed with the fresh living smell. Underneath the tree ferns, tall as forest tree ferns, the light was green. Orchids flourished out of reach or for some reason not to be touched. One was snaky looking, another like an octopus with long thing brown tentacles bare of leaves hanging from a twisted root. Twice a year the octopus orchid flowered - then not an inch of tentacle showed. It was a bell-shaped mass of white, mauve, deep purples, wonderful to see. The sent was very sweet and strong. I never went near it.

I follow her into a storeroom at the back of the shop and catch my breath when I see the bouquets she has made for the shoot. I've seen a lot of wedding flowers, but nothing like these. There are soft apricot roses with dusty-blue delphiniums, creamy-white peonies with miniature pink alliums. Waxy green orchids with deep purple irises. A phone rings in the shop and she excuses herself and goes back outside to answer it. I bend down and pick up a pretty tumble of glossy green ivy and pale purple bells on slender stems. The flowers have a delicate scent, something elusive between hyacinth and freesia.

He hopes the plant doesn't freeze to death before he can give it to her. He pictures her face when she opens the bag and sees it. A whole load of dark purple flowers stuck onto a tiny bendy stem like a bunch of butterflies about to fly off. Exposed roots like knobbly toes climbing over the rim of the plastic pot as if the whole thing is planning to get out and do a runner first chance it gets. It's a moth orchid.

He hopes the plants doesn't freeze to death before he can give it to her. He pictures her face when she opens the bag and sees it. A whole load of dark purple flowers stuck onto a tiny bendy stem like a bunch of butterflies about to fly off. Exposed roots like knobbly toes climbing over the rim of the plastic pot as if the whole thing is planning to get out and do a runner first chance it gets. It's a moth orchid.

Drake took in the grove of poplar and chestnut trees standing to one side of the cabin, providing a warmer shade than the mountains. At their feet spread a carpet of abundant wildflowers blooming with early color. Chicory with its blue-fringed petals stood proudly on long spindly stems, seeming to wave at them in welcome. Purple spiderwort and common mullein dotted the landscape. Nearer the cabin was a cluster of showy orchids, bloomed out in purple and white.

You're Beautiful Like the green romance of a bud and lily's pink, gentle sway. You: more beautiful than yesterday. Wildflower's blue surprise. Daisy's white, sunny play. You're more beautiful than yesterday. Orchid's purple mystery Mum's bronze ole` You: more beautiful than yesterday. Rose's orange perfume, even tulip's yellow secrets say: You're more beautiful that yesterday. Poppy's red, teasing lips, but YOUR beauty will never fade. You: more lovely than yesterday, You: my dazzling bouquet.

A far cicada rings high and clear over the river’s heavy wash. Morning glory, a lone dandelion, cassia, orchids. So far from the nearest sea, I am taken aback by the sight of a purple land crab, like a relict of the ancient days when the Indian subcontinent, adrift on the earth’s mantle, moved northward to collide with the Asian landmass, driving these marine rocks, inch by inch, five miles into the skies. The rise of the Himalaya, begun in the Eocene, some fifty million years ago, is still continuing: an earthquake in 1959 caused mountains to fall into the rivers and changed the course of the great Brahmaputra, which comes down out of Tibet through northeastern India to join the Ganges near its delta at the Bay of Bengal.

Large-leafed plants at the edge of the jungle reflected the sun rather than soaking it up, their dark green surfaces sparkling white in the sunlight. Some of the smaller ones had literally low-hanging fruit, like jewels from a fairy tale. Behind them was an extremely inviting path into the jungle with giant white shells for stepping-stones. And rather than the muggy, disease-filled forests of books that seemed to kill so many explorers, here the air was cool and pleasant and not too moist- although Wendy could hear the distant tinkle of water splashing from a height. "Oh! Is that the Tonal Spring? Or Diamond Falls?" Wendy withered breathlessly. "Luna, let's go see!" She made herself not race ahead down the path, but moved at a leisurely, measured pace. Like an adventuress sure of herself but wary of her surroundings. (And yet, as she wouldn't realize until later, she hadn't thought to grab her stockings or shoes. Those got left in her hut without even a simple goodbye.) Everywhere she looked, Wendy found another wonder of Never Land, from the slow camosnails to the gently nodding heads of the fritillary lilies. She smiled, imagining John as he peered over his glasses and the snail faded away into the background in fear- or Michael getting his nose covered in honey-scented lily pollen as he enthusiastically sniffed the pretty flowers. The path continued, winding around a boulder into a delightful little clearing, sandy but padded here and there with tuffets of emerald green grass and clumps of purple orchids. It was like a desert island vacation of a perfect English meadow.

Wings of Butterfly - Fallen into Your Lap A lip doesn't tremble, just to chant the prayer. A pair of eyes can't look to try to express the feeling. Even for an instant, but is there still a heartbeat come to your ears, how come my love? The wind rushed between the silence of the tables and benches. Whispering between rolls of maps and stack of books. Jumping up and down between the heads that are scattered contemplating the clear song, melodious sound of your voice. Ouch, how much more I want to trace my longing to miss this to your lap. Trembling strokes of the eyelids and lips that are perfect smiles. Echoed passion in the chest, hide the sound of thunder and also heavy rain. Where do I fret to meet the song Asmaradahana in the glazed of your eyelids. Dream was entangled by a strand of busy hair strands of purple, red, yellow, white and blue orchid strings in silent vases. Where are my tired wings has fallen before drooping surrender in your palm.

The walls behind the counter had deep floor-to-ceiling shelves for vases and jam jars and scented candles, and there was an old wrought-iron revolving stand for cards. But most of the space in the long, narrow shop was taken up with flowers and plants. Today there were fifty-two kinds of cut blooms, from the tiny cobalt-blue violets that were smaller than Lara's little fingernail to a purple-and-green-frilled brassica that was bigger than her head. The flowers were set out in gleaming metal buckets and containers of every shape and size. They were lined up on the floor three deep and stacked on the tall three-tier stand in the middle of the shop. The plants, huge leafy ferns and tiny fleshy succulents, lemon trees and jasmine bushes and freckled orchids, were displayed on floating shelves that were built at various heights all the way up to the ceiling. Lara had spent weeks getting the lighting right. There were a few soft spotlights above the flower displays, and an antique crystal chandelier hung low above the counter. There were strings of fairy lights and dozens of jewel-colored tea lights and tall, slender lanterns dotted between the buckets. When they were lit, they cast star and crescent moon shapes along the walls and the shop resembled the courtyard of a Moroccan riad- a tiny walled garden right in the middle of the city.

The most famous room in the palace—for a time the most famous room in Russia—was the Empress’s mauve boudoir. Everything in it was mauve: curtains, carpet, pillows; even the furniture was mauve-and-white Hepplewhite. Masses of fresh white and purple lilacs, vases of roses and orchids and bowls of violets perfumed the air. Tables and shelves were cluttered with books, papers and porcelain and enamel knicknacks. In this room, Alexandra surrounded herself with mementoes of her family and her religion. The walls were covered with icons. Over her chaise-longue hung a picture of the Virgin Mary. A portrait of her mother, Princess Alice, looked down from another wall. On a table in a place of honor stood a large photograph of Queen Victoria. The only portrait in the room other than religious and family pictures was a portrait of Marie Antoinette.

No two zebras are alike. Each pattern of stripes is unique, unlike any other zebra that ever lived. It was my mom’s way of reminding me to just be me. That I don’t have to try and be like everyone else. To stand out.” She laughs. “And apparently zebras can’t be broken. They can’t be domesticated. My mom was always telling me when I was growing up that I was part zebra because she could never tame me.

No two zebras are alike. Each pattern of stripes is unique, unlike any other zebra that ever lived. It was my mom’s way of reminding me to just be me. That I don’t have to try and be like everyone else. To stand out.

Be what nobody else can ever be . . . yourself

You’ve got a dress with orchid blossoms embroidered on it. Ribbons in the deepest purple. You favor the color, but not nearly as much as I find myself favoring you.” He took a deep breath. “As to the stars? Those are what I prefer. More than medical practices and deductions. The universe is vast. A mathematical equation even I have no hope of solving. For there are no limits to the stars; their numbers are infinite. Which is precisely why I measure my love for you by them. An amount too boundless to count.

Phragmipedium kovachii. It is a stunningly beautiful orchid from the Amazon rain forest in northeast Peru, with a blue-purple flower that can have a horizontal spread of up to nine and a half inches.

Sam hadn't left New York with Claire, he'd just arrived at the hotel that morning, checked in, put a few things away in his room and went downstairs to the extensive gift shop and saw the beautiful bouquet of island flowers and knew Claire would love them. The orchid in the middle of the arrangement was purple, which he knew was her favorite color.

Miss me?” he asks. “No,” I say, unable to stop more tears from falling. “Liar,” he says. “Yes,” I respond.

The ceremony consisted of vibrant pink, purple, and coral details that complemented the rustic wood and lush green vines climbing up the chapel. Abigail's team constructed an arbor made entirely of drooping orchids and palm fronds that framed the wooden doors perfectly. The aisle was lined with thousands of coral-colored rose petals and more orchids spilling over the end of every row of seats. It was a tropical dream.

I gaze at the orchid sitting on his windowsill. It's wrapped in bamboo and tied with a purple tassel. Its yellow and green leaves are long and narrow, striped like a tiger's tail. The blooms are tiny, white, and fragrant. "Fūkiran," my father says. "Grown since the Edo Period and collected by feudal lords as gifts to the shogun or emperor." He slides the office doors closed. "I know." I smile because it's familiar. My mother has a woodblock of it above her nightstand. Neofinetia falcata.

The day suddenly stilled while I watched, held in place by the mesmeric sunlight; orchids in purple splashes across the pale slopes; the insistent insect drone; the scent of ancient junipers unfolding on the air. Eternity can be anytime, any day or night, seen in the closing of a nightjar bird’s eyes. While something as small as a worm’s home can house the infinite.

Luz studied the mountains ahead, watched the sunset coloring them as the things gone from them: lilac, plum, lavender, orchid, mulberry, violet. Pomegranate, one of the last to go. John Muir had written how when we try to pick out anything by itself we find it hitched to everything else in the universe. Above those spoilt purple mountains materialized a glowing wedge of light, whiter than the sun, thin, blurred, and radiant. Snow, Luz thought, unable to stop herself. She’d seen snow only once, from a train skirting the Italian Alps, but she had never touched it and already she was zigging up there, ramming her fingers into the cool blue bank until they stung, crunching the puffs of sparkling crystals in her teeth, falling backward to make angels in the airy drifts. But there was nothing cool or blue or airy about this calcium-colored crust capping the range. It throbbed with heat, glowed radioactive with light. Luz said, “What is that?” just as the answer came to her. Ray said it. “The dune sea. The Amargosa.” “It’s that close?” They were barely beyond the city. Ray shook his head. “It’s that big.” This knocked Luz off balance: The dune was not atop the empurpled range before them but beyond it, beyond it by miles and miles. The white was not a rind of ice, not a snowcap, but sand piling up inland where the Mojave had been. They watched this sandsnow mirage, hypnotized by fertilizer dust and saline particulate and the pulverized bones of ancient sea creatures, though they did not know it. Did not know but felt this magnetic incandescence working the way the moon did, tugging at the iron in their blood. Knew only that it left them not breathless but with their breaths exactly synchronized. Ray reached for Luz, took her hand as though he’d never before touched her. They went on, silently transfixed by the immaculate flaxen range looming before them.

I laugh at him as I order my own drink and we turn our barstools around to peruse the area for Scott’s next conquest. “What about that brunette over there?” I motion to the woman sitting at a table in the corner of the bar playing with her phone.

Papina had grey hair and a purple face. She was like a trained mouse, one of those small white ones that sit up on their tails and then fall flat, their stomachs slapping the ground. She got up on her tail and stayed there through some miracle of balance, to the confusion of all who saw her walking around on her little bow legs and funny round feet. Yet her hands were so quick and lively that one couldn’t even feel her buttoning up a dress, lacing a belt or pulling a skirt round the hips to adjust it. As she took the blue trousers and yellow sash from the wardrobe for Irma, she walked behind Gioia and shook the girl’s shoulders. “Quickly, my lovely! If you sit there under a spell, the prince can’t carry you off to the wedding…” She’d read all the fairy stories and took delight in being irresistibly droll, so instead of wedding she’d said werewolf; she was imitating Macario, whom she’d seen at the cinema.

placing a raceme of purple orchids in the vase on his desk

Nothing looked familiar, or rather, it looked familiar only from trips with Aunt Kate. “Wintergreen,” I muttered to myself, passing a familiar rosette of leaves. “Crane-fly orchid.” That makes it sound like I’m some kind of amazing plant-identifying genius, but this one’s easy. The leaves are dark purple underneath and even a botanical bystander like me can remember it. Their old name was crippled crane-fly orchid, but it’s one of those names that’s softened as people learn not to be total assholes to one another