Tulip Flower Love Quotes

I hated roses. I hated them for being so trite, so clichéd, a default, all-purpose flower that said I love you, I'm sorry, and get well soon. Give me peonies and tulips, orchids or gardenia. Those were flowers with character.

I love tulips better than any other spring flower; they are the embodiment of alert cheerfulness and tidy grace, and next to a hyacinth look like a wholesome, freshly tubbed young girl beside a stout lady whose every movement weighs down the air with patchouli. Their faint, delicate scent is refinement itself; and is there anything in the world more charming than the sprightly way they hold up their little faces to the sun. I have heard them called bold and flaunting, but to me they seem modest grace itself, only always on the alert to enjoy life as much as they can and not be afraid of looking the sun or anything else above them in the face.

Tulips are the only flowers that continue to grow, up to an inch or more, after they’re cut.

Things I love about spring are these: Blooming flowers on fruit-bearing trees. Fire-red tulips—their first reveal— Followed by sun-yellow daffodils. Trees acquiring new coats of green. Natural waterfalls glistening. The chirps and melodies of birds. Throaty ribbits of frogs overheard. A passing whiff of mint to smell, Oregano and basil as well. Colorful butterflies with wings. Fuzzy, industrious bees that sting. Sunlight waning late in the day. Warm breezes causing willows to sway. Most of all, a sense of things new, Including budding feelings for you.

She fiddled with the flower some more, then blurted out, “You shouldn’t have picked this.” “You should have a tulip,” he said matter-of-factly. “It isn’t right that Edwina receives all the flowers.” Kate’s stomach, already tense and prickly, did a little flip. “Nonetheless,” she managed to say, “your gardener will surely not appreciate the mutilation of his work.” He smiled devilishly. “He’ll blame one of my younger siblings.” She couldn’t help but smile. “I should think less of you for such a ploy,” she said. “But you don’t?” She shook her head. “But then again, it’s not as if my opinion of you could sink very much lower.” “Ouch.” He shook a finger at her. “I thought you were supposed to be on your best behavior.” Kate looked around. “It doesn’t count if there is no one nearby to hear me, right?” “I can hear you.” “You certainly don’t count.” His head dipped a little closer in her direction. “I should think I was the only one who did.” -Kate & Anthony

singing (though love be a day) for which girl art thou flowers bringing?

BOWLS OF FOOD Moon and evening star do their slow tambourine dance to praise this universe. The purpose of every gathering is discovered: to recognize beauty and love what’s beautiful. “Once it was like that, now it’s like this,” the saying goes around town, and serious consequences too. Men and women turn their faces to the wall in grief. They lose appetite. Then they start eating the fire of pleasure, as camels chew pungent grass for the sake of their souls. Winter blocks the road. Flowers are taken prisoner underground. Then green justice tenders a spear. Go outside to the orchard. These visitors came a long way, past all the houses of the zodiac, learning Something new at each stop. And they’re here for such a short time, sitting at these tables set on the prow of the wind. Bowls of food are brought out as answers, but still no one knows the answer. Food for the soul stays secret. Body food gets put out in the open like us. Those who work at a bakery don’t know the taste of bread like the hungry beggars do. Because the beloved wants to know, unseen things become manifest. Hiding is the hidden purpose of creation: bury your seed and wait. After you die, All the thoughts you had will throng around like children. The heart is the secret inside the secret. Call the secret language, and never be sure what you conceal. It’s unsure people who get the blessing. Climbing cypress, opening rose, Nightingale song, fruit, these are inside the chill November wind. They are its secret. We climb and fall so often. Plants have an inner Being, and separate ways of talking and feeling. An ear of corn bends in thought. Tulip, so embarrassed. Pink rose deciding to open a competing store. A bunch of grapes sits with its feet stuck out. Narcissus gossiping about iris. Willow, what do you learn from running water? Humility. Red apple, what has the Friend taught you? To be sour. Peach tree, why so low? To let you reach. Look at the poplar, tall but without fruit or flower. Yes, if I had those, I’d be self-absorbed like you. I gave up self to watch the enlightened ones. Pomegranate questions quince, Why so pale? For the pearl you hid inside me. How did you discover my secret? Your laugh. The core of the seen and unseen universes smiles, but remember, smiles come best from those who weep. Lightning, then the rain-laughter. Dark earth receives that clear and grows a trunk. Melon and cucumber come dragging along on pilgrimage. You have to be to be blessed! Pumpkin begins climbing a rope! Where did he learn that? Grass, thorns, a hundred thousand ants and snakes, everything is looking for food. Don’t you hear the noise? Every herb cures some illness. Camels delight to eat thorns. We prefer the inside of a walnut, not the shell. The inside of an egg, the outside of a date. What about your inside and outside? The same way a branch draws water up many feet, God is pulling your soul along. Wind carries pollen from blossom to ground. Wings and Arabian stallions gallop toward the warmth of spring. They visit; they sing and tell what they think they know: so-and-so will travel to such-and-such. The hoopoe carries a letter to Solomon. The wise stork says lek-lek. Please translate. It’s time to go to the high plain, to leave the winter house. Be your own watchman as birds are. Let the remembering beads encircle you. I make promises to myself and break them. Words are coins: the vein of ore and the mine shaft, what they speak of. Now consider the sun. It’s neither oriental nor occidental. Only the soul knows what love is. This moment in time and space is an eggshell with an embryo crumpled inside, soaked in belief-yolk, under the wing of grace, until it breaks free of mind to become the song of an actual bird, and God.

Drab and colorless as her existence would seem to have been, Mrs. Harris had always felt a craving for beauty and color and which up to this moment had manifested itself in a love for flowers.... Outside the windows of her basement flat were two window boxes of geraniums, her favorite flower, and inside, wherever there was room, there was a little pot containing a geranium struggling desperately to conquer its environment, or a single hyacinth or tulip, bought from a barrow for a hard-earned shilling. Then too, the people for whom she worked would sometimes present her with the leavings of their cut flowers which in their wilted state she would take home and try to nurse back to health, and once in a while, particularly in the spring, she would buy herself a little box of pansies, primroses or anemones. As long as she had flowers Mrs. Harris had no serious complaints concerning the life she led. They were her escape from the somber stone desert in which she lived. These bright flashes of color satisfied her. They were something to return to in the evening, something to wake up to in the morning.

My heart has been broken a million times by the same hand, yet I would let it happen a million times again if it meant it was by you. I was weaker than I thought / my heart sagging like the stems of uncut, unkempt flowers because of the sunlight you held in your faraway heart / Maybe you weren't mine to love / I think I'm falling The wallpaper above her bed frame was glued in my brain the way it was glued against her walls / I got so close to running my fingers against it / I wish I felt the confidence to tell you the truth, as strongly as I felt stubborn to hide it Do you hear that? That's my heart knocking against my chest at the sight of you / I've never heard anything more terrifying / how could you provide me air and suffocate me at the same time? Blue hydrangeas, pink tulips, red bleeding hearts / it's all you ever loved, but never yourself / I never understood why anyone spoke poorly of the color brown, it was a dream on you And that kiss... I think about it all the time / was it wrong of me to think of you when you were never mine? / I feel lucky to have had you, but dismayed to know what life is like without you Don't worry if the flowers pass, I'll be right there to plant you more / and when the soil grows old, I'll comfort it in the chaos of the storm Am I a ghost in your story? / because you look at me with conviction when I don't even know the crime I committed Burden me with your secrets / so I can carry the weight you're so fearful of letting go To be close to you was to be haunted by what I couldn't have and to be reminded of how much I truly wanted you / and I'd be lying if I said I never thought about where my hands would take me across your body Midnights and daydreaming hours of retracing steps to how we possibly got here / how did I ever let time pass this long without seeing you? / my heart was so full of our memories that painted my body like a scrapbook I tried to stop loving you, but along the way, you found your way into the sound of my laugh, the style of my writing, and the threads of my clothes / I would've gone down on my knees just to hear you say yes Neck stiff, legs weak, eyes set on what we could've looked like if you hadn't left / 'moving on' was a broken record that I never had the strength to lift the needle off of / If hearts were meant to love then why did mine feel so empty? / and suddenly, I fell Glances, gazes, eyes following places they shouldn't have seen / intimacy was to be seen by you; free falling was to be touched by you / there was no such thing as a crowded room where you stood She lives in between the pinks and yellows of the world / where a beautiful color is unknown to others / and when she speaks, I become a bee enthralled in a field of daisies

The Quiet Garden is lovely in September, even though the summer flowers are gone. One nice thing about having a special small garden for your flowers is that you can remember it like a picture at all seasons. I remember how sweet it is in spring with the white daffodils and narcissus and white and violet-blue tulips and white pansies." page 135

walked by. “Remember, they love tricking people in Wonderland,” Alex whispered. “Don’t talk to any of them.” “Hello there,” a rose said. “Welcome to the garden,” said a tulip. “Wouldn’t you like to stay and hear us sing a song?” an orchid asked. The group took Alex’s advice to heart and walked past the flowers without making eye contact. They kept their eyes on the ground until they were out of the garden. “If I haven’t seen that in a nightmare before, I definitely will now,” Conner said. They looked up and their hearts beat with excitement. In the distance, on the edge of a wood

The tulips are too excitable, it is winter here. Look how white everything is, how quiet, how snowed-in. I am learning peacefulness, lying by myself quietly As the light lies on these white walls, this bed, these hands. I am nobody; I have nothing to do with explosions. I have given my name and my day-clothes up to the nurses And my history to the anesthetist and my body to surgeons. They have propped my head between the pillow and the sheet-cuff Like an eye between two white lids that will not shut. Stupid pupil, it has to take everything in. The nurses pass and pass, they are no trouble, They pass the way gulls pass inland in their white caps, Doing things with their hands, one just the same as another, So it is impossible to tell how many there are. My body is a pebble to them, they tend it as water Tends to the pebbles it must run over, smoothing them gently. They bring me numbness in their bright needles, they bring me sleep. Now I have lost myself I am sick of baggage—— My patent leather overnight case like a black pillbox, My husband and child smiling out of the family photo; Their smiles catch onto my skin, little smiling hooks. I have let things slip, a thirty-year-old cargo boat stubbornly hanging on to my name and address. They have swabbed me clear of my loving associations. Scared and bare on the green plastic-pillowed trolley I watched my teaset, my bureaus of linen, my books Sink out of sight, and the water went over my head. I am a nun now, I have never been so pure. I didn’t want any flowers, I only wanted To lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty. How free it is, you have no idea how free—— The peacefulness is so big it dazes you, And it asks nothing, a name tag, a few trinkets. It is what the dead close on, finally; I imagine them Shutting their mouths on it, like a Communion tablet. The tulips are too red in the first place, they hurt me. Even through the gift paper I could hear them breathe Lightly, through their white swaddlings, like an awful baby. Their redness talks to my wound, it corresponds. They are subtle : they seem to float, though they weigh me down, Upsetting me with their sudden tongues and their color, A dozen red lead sinkers round my neck. Nobody watched me before, now I am watched. The tulips turn to me, and the window behind me Where once a day the light slowly widens and slowly thins, And I see myself, flat, ridiculous, a cut-paper shadow Between the eye of the sun and the eyes of the tulips, And I have no face, I have wanted to efface myself. The vivid tulips eat my oxygen. Before they came the air was calm enough, Coming and going, breath by breath, without any fuss. Then the tulips filled it up like a loud noise. Now the air snags and eddies round them the way a river Snags and eddies round a sunken rust-red engine. They concentrate my attention, that was happy Playing and resting without committing itself. The walls, also, seem to be warming themselves. The tulips should be behind bars like dangerous animals; They are opening like the mouth of some great African cat, And I am aware of my heart: it opens and closes Its bowl of red blooms out of sheer love of me. The water I taste is warm and salt, like the sea, And comes from a country far away as health. --"Tulips", written 18 March 1961

The Gauze of Flowers, A Love Poem” Remember when we couldn’t name it because it was a meadow wild with tulips, both bright as snow and dull as fire? Driving in circles to find the right spot for our love, then using a chair? My heart was still an artichoke, layered and prickly But you kept making me nest my face in that one thick bouquet. And just this morning my love was briefly stuck in my throat as I remember all the soil and sadness, remembered seeing you on certain streets and corners, remembered all the rubble and clang. Remember how it is and isn’t fragile? How it speaks in ears and fingers takes days and hours still it wants nothing and it wants more? And just this morning the flowers you brought home drank in the sunrise, they fleshed themselves out the way people do, shaking the cold from their collars as they move toward the fire, rubbing together their hands, kindling it back. Some days we want our love to be fleshy. But some days it’s transparent. It’s like gauze. It is and isn’t fragile. I dare you to name it. I dare you to remember the rubble and clang.

The Gauze of Flowers, A Love Poem” Remember when we couldn’t name it because it was a meadow wild with tulips, both bright as snow and dull as fire? Driving in circles to find the right spot for our love, then using a chair? My heart was still an artichoke, layered and prickly But you kept making me nest my face in that one thick bouquet. And just this morning my love was briefly stuck in my throat as I remember all the soil and sadness, remembered seeing you on certain streets and corners, remembered all the rubble and clang. Remember how it is and isn’t fragile? How it speaks in ears and fingers takes days and hours still it wants nothing and it wants more? And just this morning the flowers you brought home drank in the sunrise, they fleshed themselves out the way people do, shaking the cold from their collars as they move toward the fire, rubbing together their hands, kindling it back. Some days we want our love to be fleshy. But some days it’s transparent. It’s like gauze. It is and isn’t fragile. I dare you to name it. I dare you to remember the rubble and clang.

FROM THE WAVERLEY KITCHEN JOURNAL Angelica - Will shape its meaning to your need, but it is particularly good for calming hyper children at your table. Anise Hyssop - Eases frustration and confusion. Bachelor’s Button - Aids in finding things that were previously hidden. A clarifying flower. Chicory - Conceals bitterness. Gives the eater a sense that all is well. A cloaking flower. Chive Blossom - Ensures you will win an argument. Conveniently, also an antidote for hurt feelings. Dandelion - A stimulant encouraging faithfulness. Frequent side effects are blindness to flaws and spontaneous apologies. Honeysuckle - For seeing in the dark, but only if you use honeysuckle from a brush of vines at least two feet thick. A clarifying flower. Hyacinth Bulb - Causes melancholy and thoughts of past regrets. Use only dried bulbs. A time-travel flower. Lavender - Raises spirits. Prevents bad decisions resulting from fatigue or depression. Lemon Balm - Upon consumption, for a brief period of time the eater will think and feel as he did in his youth. Please note if you have any former hellions at your table before serving. A time-travel flower. Lemon Verbena - Produces a lull in conversation with a mysterious lack of awkwardness. Helpful when you have nervous, overly talkative guests. Lilac - When a certain amount of humility is in order. Gives confidence that humbling yourself to another will not be used against you. Marigold - Causes affection, but sometimes accompanied by jealousy. Nasturtium - Promotes appetite in men. Makes women secretive. Secret sexual liaisons sometimes occur in mixed company. Do not let your guests out of your sight. Pansy - Encourages the eater to give compliments and surprise gifts. Peppermint - A clever method of concealment. When used with other edible flowers, it confuses the eater, thus concealing the true nature of what you are doing. A cloaking flower. Rose Geranium - Produces memories of past good times. Opposite of Hyacinth Bulb. A time-travel flower. Rose Petal - Encourages love. Snapdragon - Wards off the undue influences of others, particularly those with magical sensibilities. Squash and Zucchini Blossoms - Serve when you need to be understood. Clarifying flowers. Tulip - Gives the eater a sense of sexual perfection. A possible side effect is being susceptible to the opinions of others. Violet - A wonderful finish to a meal. Induces calm, brings on happiness, and always assures a good night’s sleep.

Beauty Void lay the world, in nothingness concealed, Without a trace of light or life revealed, Save one existence which second knew- Unknown the pleasant words of We and You. Then Beauty shone, from stranger glances free, Seen of herself, with naught beside to see, With garments pure of stain, the fairest flower Of virgin loveliness in bridal bower. No combing hand had smoothed a flowing tress, No mirror shown her eyes their loveliness No surma dust those cloudless orbs had known, To the bright rose her cheek no bulbul flown. No heightening hand had decked the rose with green, No patch or spot upon that cheek was seen. No zephyr from her brow had fliched a hair, No eye in thought had seen the splendour there. Her witching snares in solitude she laid, And love's sweet game without a partner played. But when bright Beauty reigns and knows her power She springs indignant from her curtained bower. She scorns seclusion and eludes the guard, And from the window looks if doors be barred. See how the tulip on the mountain grown Soon as the breath of genial Spring has blown, Bursts from the rock, impatient to display Her nascent beauty to the eye of day. When sudden to thy soul reflection brings The precious meaning of mysterious things, Thou canst not drive the thought from out thy brain; Speak, hear thou must, for silence is such pain. So beauty ne'er will quit the urgent claim Whose motive first from heavenly beauty came When from her blessed bower she fondly strayed, And to the world and man her charms displayed. In every mirror then her face was shown, Her praise in every place was heard and known. Touched by her light, the hearts of angels burned, And, like the circling spheres, their heads were turned, While saintly bands, whom purest at the sight of her, And those who bathe them in the ocean sky Cries out enraptured, "Laud to God on high!" Rays of her splendour lit the rose's breast And stirred the bulbul's heart with sweet unrest. From her bright glow its cheek the flambeau fired, And myriad moths around the flame expired. Her glory lent the very sun the ray Which wakes the lotus on the flood to-day. Her loveliness made Laila's face look fair To Majnún, fettered by her every hair. She opened Shírín's sugared lips, and stole From Parvíz' breast and brave Farhád's the soul. Through her his head the Moon of Canaan raised, And fond Zulaikha perished as she gazed. Yes, though she shrinks from earthly lovers' call, Eternal Beauty is the queen of all; In every curtained bower the screen she holds, About each captured heart her bonds enfolds. Through her sweet love the heart its life retains, The soul through love of her its object gains. The heart which maidens' gentle witcheries stir Is, though unconscious, fired with love of her. Refrain from idle speech; mistake no more: She brings her chains and we, her slaves, adore. Fair and approved of Love, thou still must own That gift of beauty comes from her alone. Thou art concealed: she meets all lifted eyes; Thou art the mirror which she beautifies. She is that mirror, if we closely view The truth- the treasure and the treasury too. But thou and I- our serious work is naught; We waste our days unmoved by earnest thought. Cease, or my task will never end, for her Sweet beauties lack a meet interpreter. Then let us still the slaves of love remain For without love we live in vain, in vain. Jámí, "Yúsuf and Zulaikha". trans. Ralph T. H. Griffith. Ballantyne Press 1882. London. p.19-22

Can you revive wilted tulips?

Surely, he knows that, in the language of flowers, to give a woman tulips is a declaration of … love?

Not roses or carnations, chrysanthemums or tulips. For her, Gerbera daisies, not because of the 30 species, the fifth-most cut flower in the world, their heads perfect halos of dazzling colors that draw even the darkest of minds, but because each flower is made of hundreds of smaller flowers, and so there is no single bloom that provides more chance, extends the game of He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not. Compelling is the urge to work around the center, dismantle a thing of beauty into the least of its parts. How it finishes depends on sheer luck, a numbers game of odds and evens that often ends badly: if I could, I’d have planted a bed of flowers in her head to elongate the game, increase her chances, or hope that one sturdy bloom would seed and take root, spawn continuous subdivisions of itself to keep her plucking away at a Möbius strip of a garden that would end to begin again. But she only had the one flower. With it, she climbed the tallest mountain and looked out over the edge, her mind tearing at the petals, each dark thought a synapse, an impulse held and then released, held and released, until only the stalk remained— I might, I might not, I just might." -"Suicide Is a Mind Stripping Petals off Flowers

Flowers had an unspoken language, and each had something to say. White tulips represented a plea for forgiveness and a wish for a new start. Red roses were a symbol of passionate love. Sunflowers meant adoration. Receiving yellow hyacinths was a sign of jealousy, and geraniums insulted your intelligence.

When a knock finally sounded from outside the apartment, I eagerly rose to my feet and made my way toward the door to let him in. “You do realize you have a key, correct?” I teased, trying to bite back my nerves. “You don’t have to knock.” “I don’t have to, but I wanted to.” He leaned in and gave me a peck on my cheek and I took in the smell of his cologne. It was light enough that it was hardly noticeable from a distance, but up close, it was a mesmerizing scent, one reminiscent of sandalwood. He pulled a small bouquet of flowers from behind his back and handed them to me. “Your favorite, of course." All at once, my nerves seemed to ease up. I smiled as I took the purple tulips from Ben and went in search of a vase to store them in. “I’ll admit, I can get used to this.” “Is that so?” He cocked a brow as he followed me into the kitchen. “Well, I’ll admit, I could get used to you like this.” He moved in behind me as I stood at the sink, filling a vase with water for the flowers, and wrapped his arms around my waist. “I’m a lucky man,” he whispered, leaning in closely so that his warm breath caught against my neck, eliciting a chill throughout my body. “You look amazing, Gems. So much so that I fear if we don’t leave soon, I won’t be able to stop myself from dragging you to your bedroom.” “Is that supposed to be a threat or an offer?” I grabbed hold of his arms and pressed back against him. In response, he let out a growl. “Don’t tempt me, love. It’s already hard enough,” he insisted. “We’re supposed to do things the right way, remember?” “Ah, yes. You and your ‘right way’ nonsense.” I leaned my head back to look up at him and grinned because I knew he was fighting it, and it would only be a matter of time before he caved. “I know you and sooner or later, you’re going to give in.” “Don’t tempt me, love.” He pulled one of his hands from mine and ran his right thumb over my jaw. “I’m trying to be good here.” “But maybe I don’t want you to be good, Benjamin.

there she was, standing out, wildly regal, so eminent from all the others, rising above the crown of royalty...so much more colorful, more luscious, more luminous...so much more beautiful than anything else he had ever seen, all he could do was smile and cry...

She fiddled with the flower some more, then blurted out, “You shouldn’t have picked this.” “You should have a tulip,” he said matter-of-factly. “It isn’t right that Edwina receives all the flowers.