Tulip Flowers Quotes

We've searched our database for all the quotes and captions related to Tulip Flowers. Here they are! All 100 of them:

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.
Justina Chen (North of Beautiful)
I could hear you, talking to the daffodils and tulips, whispering to the fairies that lived inside their petals. Each separate flower had a different family inside it.
Lucy Christopher (Stolen (Stolen, #1))
A tulip doesn’t strive to impress anyone. It doesn’t struggle to be different than a rose. It doesn’t have to. It is different. And there’s room in the garden for every flower. You didn’t have to struggle to make your face different than anyone else’s on earth. It just is. You are unique because you were created that way. Look at little children in kindergarten. They’re all different without trying to be. As long as they’re unselfconsciously being themselves, they can’t help but shine. It’s only later, when children are taught to compete, to strive to be better than others, that their natural light becomes distorted.
Marianne Williamson
He has an armload of irises and daisies and tulips and he presents them to me. "I didn't know what kind of flowers you like." "I like them all." "Yeah?" "Yeah." He tries to hand them to me, but then remembers the cast. "I'll put them in water." Betty swoops in the room ridiculously fast and she grabs the flowers out of Nick's hands. "I'll take care of them. You lovebirds just sit on the couch and think swooning things at each other.
Carrie Jones (Need (Need, #1))
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. --from "Tulips", written 18 March 1961
Sylvia Plath (Ariel)
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 for nothing. ~ Tulips (1961)
Sylvia Plath (Plath: Poems)
These seeds will always be tulips, even if at the moment you cannot tell them apart from other flowers. They will never turn into roses or sunflowers, no matter how much they might desire to. And if they try to deny their own existence, they will live life bitter and die.
Paulo Coelho (The Spy)
But why should the daffodils and tulips Get all the praise and blessings? My rebirth goes unnoticed- I am worthy Of smiles and dazzled cries of worship.
Lea Malot (Coffins & Rhinestones)
To despise flowers is to offend God.
Alexandre Dumas (The Black Tulip)
Tulips were a tray of jewels.
E.M. Forster (Howards End)
Concerning trees and leaves... there's a real power here. It is amazing that trees can turn gravel and bitter salts into these soft-lipped lobes, as if I were to bite down on a granite slab and start to swell, bud and flower. Every year a given tree creates absolutely from scratch ninety-nine percent of its living parts. Water lifting up tree trunks can climb one hundred and fifty feet an hour; in full summer a tree can, and does, heave a ton of water every day. A big elm in a single season might make as many as six million leaves, wholly intricate, without budging an inch; I couldn't make one. A tree stands there, accumulating deadwood, mute and rigid as an obelisk, but secretly it seethes, it splits, sucks and stretches; it heaves up tons and hurls them out in a green, fringed fling. No person taps this free power; the dynamo in the tulip tree pumps out even more tulip tree, and it runs on rain and air.
Annie Dillard
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.
Elizabeth von Arnim (Elizabeth and Her German Garden)
My favorite flower is the tulip. I’m crazy like Holland about them. I’ll even pay as much as $1,637 for one.
Jarod Kintz (At even one penny, this book would be overpriced. In fact, free is too expensive, because you'd still waste time by reading it.)
The Gentle Gardener I'd like to leave but daffodils to mark my little way, To leave but tulips red and white behind me as I stray; I'd like to pass away from earth and feel I'd left behind But roses and forget-me-nots for all who come to find. I'd like to sow the barren spots with all the flowers of earth, To leave a path where those who come should find but gentle mirth; And when at last I'm called upon to join the heavenly throng I'd like to feel along my way I'd left no sign of wrong. And yet the cares are many and the hours of toil are few; There is not time enough on earth for all I'd like to do; But, having lived and having toiled, I'd like the world to find Some little touch of beauty that my soul had left behind.
Edgar A. Guest
Tulips are the only flowers that continue to grow, up to an inch or more, after they’re cut.
Sarah Jio (The Look of Love)
[Lennie meets Joe - he works out that she was named after John Lennon] I nod. "Mom was a hippie." This is northern Northern California after all - the final frontier of freakerdom. Just in the eleventh grade we have a girl named Electricity, a guy named Magic Bus, and countless flowers: Tulip, Begonia, and Poppy - all parent-given-on-the-birth-certificate names. Tulip is a two-ton bruiser of a guy who would be the star of out football team if we were the kind of school that has optional morning meditation in the gym
Jandy Nelson
Right now, I couldn't have cared less if someone had waltzed across the room in a large flower costume with a sign saying GET YOUR BLACK TULIPS HERE. Every nerve in my body was on man-alert, screaming, "incoming!
Lauren Willig (The Masque of the Black Tulip (Pink Carnation, #2))
It was an overcast day, but the cloudy weather did not detract from the signs of spring that were evident all around them. It was the second week in March, and the official start of the season was just a couple of weeks away. The magnolia trees had already bloomed, and tulips, daffodils, and wildflowers were shooting up all around the convent's gardens.
Rosanna Chiofalo (Rosalia's Bittersweet Pastry Shop)
Art lies, to tell the truth. Flowers from different seasons bloom impossibly together. Trees are shifted around in the landscape to frame the composition. Rooms are created like stage sets, furnished with the artist’s own possessions, where models are arranged in a speechless moment of drama.
Deborah Moggach (Tulip Fever)
It cannot be defeated: Just when a gardener thinks he has won and eradicated it from his lawn, a rain would bring the yellow florets right back. Yet it’s never arrogant: Its color and fragrance never overwhelm those of another. Immensely practical, its leaves are delicious and medicinal, while its roots loosen hard soils, so that it acts as a pioneer for other more delicate flowers. But best of all, it’s a flower that lives in the soil but dreams of the skies. When its seeds take to the wind, it will go farther and see more than any pampered rose, tulip, or marigold.
Ken Liu (The Grace of Kings (The Dandelion Dynasty, #1))
They walked down to the boathouse. But before Wylan entered, he bent and plucked a red tulip from its bed. They all followed suit and silently filed inside. One by one, they knelt by Nina and rested a flower upon Matthias’ chest, then stood, surrounding his body, as if now that it was too late, they might protect him. Kuwei was the last. There were tears in his golden eyes, and Jesper was glad he’d joined their circle. Matthias was the reason Kuwei and Jesper had survived the ambush on Black Veil; he was one of the reasons Kuwei would have a chance to truly live as a Grisha in Ravka.
Leigh Bardugo (Crooked Kingdom (Six of Crows, #2))
Contempt for flowers is an offence against God. The lovelier the flower, the greater the offence in despising it. The tulip is the loveliest of all flowers. So whoever despised the tulip offends God immeasurably.
Alexandre Dumas
A vast field opened like a blossoming tulip, flowers blooming in the rippling airs of spring. High and frothy trees hugged air and sun as they gallantly cast a shade over the earth. On the horizon a florid vessel of mountains trailed to the never-ending, blue as memories distant, poised as statues embroidered into time’s eternal drift.
Pablo Andrés Wunderlich Padilla
There was a vase of flame-coloured tulips in the hall - surely the most graceful of flowers. Some thrust their heads forward like snakes, and some were very erect, stiff, virginal, rather prim. Some were dying, with curved grace in their death.
Jean Rhys (After Leaving Mr. Mackenzie)
Margaret quirked her lips, looking much like the imp their mother used to call her. "What flower would ye pick for Katherine Campbell?" Callum snorted. "I wouldna pick flowers." "Ye let her take a bite out of ye." Maggie looked up at him, then cut him off when he opened his mouth to speak. "Ye fancy her. What flower would ye pick for her?" "Tulips," he mumbled, ignoring her knowing smirk.
Paula Quinn
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.
Richelle E. Goodrich (Being Bold: Quotes, Poetry, & Motivations for Every Day of the Year)
Each spring for a period of weeks the imperial gardens were filled with prize tulips (Turkish, Dutch, Iranian), all of them shown to their best advantage. Tulips whose petals had flexed wide were held shut with fine threads hand-tied. Most of the bulbs had been grown in place, but these were supplemented by thousands of cut stems held in glass bottles; the scale of the display was further compounded by mirrors placed strategically around the garden. Each variety was marked with a label made from silver filigree. In place of every fourth flower a candle, its wick trimmed to tulip height, was set into the ground. Songbirds in gilded cages supplied the music, and hundreds of giant tortoises carrying candles on their backs lumbered through the gardens, further illuminating the display. All the guests were required to dress in colors that flattered those of the tulips. At the appointed moment a cannon sounded, the doors to the harem were flung open, and the sultan's mistresses stepped into the garden led by eunuchs bearing torches. The whole scene was repeated every night for as long as the tulips were in bloom, for as long as Sultan Ahmed managed to cling to his throne.
Michael Pollan (The Botany of Desire: A Plant's-Eye View of the World)
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
Julia Quinn (The Viscount Who Loved Me (Bridgertons, #2))
Three weeks after Trevor died a trio of tulips in an earthenware pot stopped me in the middle of my mind. I had woken abruptly and, still dazed from sleep, mistook the dawn light hitting the petals for the flowers emitting their own luminescence. I crawled to the glowing cups, thinking I was seeing a miracle, my own burning bush. But when I got closer, my head blocked the rays and the tulips turned off. This also means nothing, I know. But some nothings change everything after them. In Vietnamese, the word for missing someone and remembering them is the same: nhớ. Sometimes, when you ask me over the phone, Con nhớ mẹ không? I flinch, thinking you meant, Do you remember me? I miss you more than I remember you.
Ocean Vuong (On Earth We're Briefly Gorgeous)
Whilst Cornelius was weeding, manuring, watering his beds, whilst, kneeling on the turf border, he analysed every vein of the flowering tulips,
Alexandre Dumas (The Black Tulip)
singing (though love be a day) for which girl art thou flowers bringing?
E.E. Cummings (Tulips & Chimneys)
The Geranium When I put her out, once, by the garbage pail, She looked so limp and bedraggled, So foolish and trusting, like a sick poodle, Or a wizened aster in late September, I brought her back in again For a new routine - Vitamins, water, and whatever Sustenance seemed sensible At the time: she'd lived So long on gin, bobbie pins, half-smoked cigars, dead beer, Her shriveled petals falling On the faded carpet, the stale Steak grease stuck to her fuzzy leaves. (Dried-out, she creaked like a tulip.) The things she endured!- The dumb dames shrieking half the night Or the two of us, alone, both seedy, Me breathing booze at her, She leaning out of her pot toward the window. Near the end, she seemed almost to hear me- And that was scary- So when that snuffling cretin of a maid Threw her, pot and all, into the trash-can, I said nothing. But I sacked the presumptuous hag the next week, I was that lonely.
Theodore Roethke (Selected Poems)
The tulips are not tulips of blood, the red smiles are not flowers, neither thing makes a comment on the other. The tulip is not a reason for disbelief in the hanged man, or vice versa.
Margaret Atwood (The Handmaid's Tale)
It was written,” thought poor Cornelius, “that I should not, in this world, give my name either to a child, to a flower, or to a book, the three things by which a man's memory is perpetuated.
Alexandre Dumas (The Black Tulip)
The grass is green The tulip is red A ginger cat walks over The pink almond petals on the flower bed. Enough has been said to show It is life we are taking about. - Oh grateful colours; bright looks!
Stevie Smith (Scorpion and Other Poems)
There are strawberries growing among my bulbs. Wild ones, seeded from God knows where, poking their pale little fingers among the tulips and crocuses. Wild strawberries are invasive; not quite as invasive as dandelions, but those little heart-shaped leaves conceal a powerful hunger for conquest, sending their runners everywhere, each one an outpost preparing itself for a future invasion. And yet I cannot bring myself, père, to curb their cheery exuberance. Though more or less worthless in terms of fruit, the little white flowers and pretty leaves make excellent ground count cover, keeping the thistles and ragwort at bay without suppressing my daffodils. And besides, in summer, there may be enough of the tiny red berries to put on a tart, or flavor a glassful of sweet white wine. That is, if the birds do not steal them first. They too enjoy their sweetness. Those strawberries will creep, Reynaud, said Narcisse's voice in my mind. Let them stay, and in a month, your beds will be nothing but strawberries.
Joanne Harris (The Strawberry Thief (Chocolat, #4))
Beneath and around the dead and ruined chaparral rise the most amazingly beautiful flowers. Tulips and wind poppies and flame poppies, whispering bells and suncups. These are flowers that grow only after a burn. Only in a land once dead. You never see them otherwise When my eyes closed I can see those flowers now. They are a promise: that the land will regrow, that even after a disaster life continues, that wonders abound. k
Frances Wood (Daughter of Madrugada)
The tulips are not tulips of blood, the red smiles are not flowers, neither thing makes a comment on the other. The tulip is not a reason for disbelief in the hanged man, or vice versa. Each thing is valid and really there.
Margaret Atwood (The Handmaid's Tale (The Handmaid's Tale, #1))
To despise flowers is to offend God. "The more beautiful the flower is, the more does one offend God in despising it. "The tulip is the most beautiful of all flowers. "Therefore, he who despises the tulip offends God beyond measure.
Alexandre Dumas (The Black Tulip)
Spring blooms had been coming in from Holland since December, but now flowers from Irish growers were arriving. Daffodils with their frilled trumpets and tissue-paper-delicate anemones and the first tulips with sturdy stems and glossy, tightly packed petals.
Ella Griffin (The Flower Arrangement)
The red is the same but there is no connection. The tulips are not tulips of blood, the red smiles are not flowers, neither thing makes a comment on the other. The tulip is not a reason for disbelief in the hanged man, or vice versa. Each thing is valid and really there.
Margaret Atwood (The Handmaid’s Tale (The Handmaid's Tale, #1))
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.
Rumi (Jalal ad-Din Muhammad ar-Rumi) (The Soul of Rumi: A New Collection of Ecstatic Poems)
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.
Paul Gallico (Mrs. 'Arris Goes to Paris)
Spring has come with little prelude, like turning a rocky corner into a valley, and gardens and borders have blossomed suddenly lush with daffodils, irises, tulips. Even the derelict houses of Les Marauds are touched with color, but here the ordered gardens have run to rampant eccentricity; a flowering elder growing from the balcony of a house overlooking the water, a roof carpeted with dandelions, violets poking out of a crumbling facade. Once-cultivated plants have reverted to their wild state, small leggy geraniums thrusting between hemlock-umbels, self-seeded poppies scattered at random and bastardized from their original red to orange to palest mauve. A few days' sunshine is enough to coax them from sleep; after the rain they stretch and raise their heads toward the light. Pull out a handful of these supposed weeds, and there are sages and irises, pinks and lavenders, under the docks and ragwort.
Joanne Harris (Chocolat (Chocolat, #1))
He fell into a trance as she worked with the tulips, watching her hands as if he was hypnotized. She talked to him quietly, telling him the names of the greenery she was adding- evergreen viburnum for the primary foliage at the bottom, eucalyptus to fill out the gaps in the middle, tall bells of Ireland to add texture at the top.
Ella Griffin (The Flower Arrangement)
An acre of poppies and a forest of spruce boggle no one’s mind. Even ten square miles of wheat gladdens the hearts of most . . . No, in the plant world, and especially among the flowering plants, fecundity is not an assault on human values. Plants are not our competitors; they are our prey and our nesting materials. We are no more distressed at their proliferation than an owl is at a population explosion among field mice . . . but in the animal world things are different, and human feelings are different . . . Fecundity is anathema only in the animal. "Acres and acres of rats" has a suitably chilling ring to it that is decidedly lacking if I say, instead, "acres and acres of tulips".
Annie Dillard (Pilgrim at Tinker Creek)
Ordering online was all about ticking boxes. Species. Color. Size. Number. Grade of quality. Degree of openness. But there was something miraculous about seeing the flowers she'd imagined brought to life. Roses from Columbia. Chrysanthemums from Ecuador. Orchids from Thailand. Anemones and agapanthus from Spain. Stargazers and parrot tulips from the vast Dutch flower fields.
Ella Griffin (The Flower Arrangement)
They're tulip seeds, the symbol of our country. But, more than that, they represent a truth you must learn. These seeds will always be tulips, even if at the moment you cannot tell them apart from other flowers. They will never turn into roses or sunflowers, no matter how much they might desire to. And if they try to deny their own existence, they will live life bitter and die.
Paulo Coelho (The Spy)
And so passed one morning and every morning and day but the people growing gentle and together, like old bulbs without promise of bloom, thrown to the rubbish heap and sinking in the filth and blindness to sprout a seperate community of dark, touching tendril and root to yet invisible colour of maimed flowers, narcissus, daffodil, tulip, and crocus-leaf stained with blade of snow.
Janet Frame (Owls Do Cry)
Here Cornelius stopped and heaved a sigh. "And yet," he continued, "it would have been so very delightful to spend the hundred thousand guilders on the enlargement of my tulip-bed or even on a journey to the East, the country of beautiful flowers. But, alas! these are no thoughts for the present times, when muskets, standards, proclamations, and beating of drums are the order of the day.
Alexandre Dumas (The Black Tulip)
And there were so many places to go. Thickets of bramble. Fallen trees. Ferns, and violets, and gorse, paths all lined with soft green moss. And in the very heart of the wood, there was a clearing, with a circle of stones, and an old well in the middle, next to a big dead oak tree, and everything- fallen branches, standing stones, even the well, with its rusty pump- draped and festooned and piled knee-high with ruffles and flounces of strawberries, with blackbirds picking over the fruit, and the scent like all of summer. It wasn't like the rest of the farm. Narcisse's farm is very neat, with everything set out in its place. A little field for sunflowers: one for cabbages; one for squash; one for Jerusalem artichokes. Apple trees to one side; peaches and plums to the other. And in the polytunnels, there were daffodils, tulips, freesias; and in season, lettuce, tomatoes, beans. All neatly planted, in rows, with nets to keep the birds from stealing them. But here there were no nets, or polytunnels, or windmills to frighten away the birds. Just that clearing of strawberries, and the old well in the circle of stones. There was no bucket in the well. Just the broken pump, and the trough, and a grate to cover the hole, which was very deep, and not quite straight, and filled with ferns and that swampy smell. And if you put your eye to the grate, you could see a roundel of sky reflected in the water, and little pink flowers growing out from between the cracks in the old stone. And there was a kind of draught coming up from under the ground, as if something was hiding there and breathing, very quietly.
Joanne Harris (The Strawberry Thief (Chocolat, #4))
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.
Charlotte Brontë (Jane Eyre)
Often I return to the grave after leaving flowers – tulips, lilies, carnations – to find the heads eaten by deer. It’s just as good a use for the flowers as any, and one Paul would have liked. The earth is quickly turned over by worms, the processes of nature marching on, reminding me of what Paul saw and what I now carry deep in my bones, too: the inextricability of life and death, and the ability to cope, to find meaning despite this, because of this. What happened to Paul was tragic, but he was not a tragedy.
Paul Kalanithi (When Breath Becomes Air)
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.
Ella Griffin (The Flower Arrangement)
She led me into the salon, where buckets of mostly white flowers bloomed in every corner of the room like fluffy clouds, making it a magical olfactory experience for my nose and my spirit, the sweet aromas potent. There were roses, tulips, and peonies, as well as a few containers bursting with blood-orange flowers with saffron-colored filaments, similar in form to an amaryllis. "I mostly ordered white flowers," said Jane, pointing to an arrangement. "The clivias offer a dash of color- my concept for the exciting change to come.
Samantha Verant (The Secret French Recipes of Sophie Valroux (Sophie Valroux, #1))
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
Chris Colfer (The Land of Stories Complete Gift Set)
A butterfly fluttered from flower to flower in the old garden, gracing the silvery-blue tips of the crocuses and what remained of the icy-white petals of the lady's prized tulips. The yellow strands on the butterfly's wings shimmered in the fading light, and Libby watched the creature in its journey, mesmerized by the graceful rise and fall of its dance. Her arms outstretched, Libby twirled around like she had as a girl, embracing the last rays of sunlight. Here in this garden, she was as free as the butterfly. Here she didn't have to hide. The butterfly climbed above the flowers and soared toward the lily pond. Beyond the pond were more flowers, hundreds of them, and then the trees. Soon the butterfly would curl up under a rock or leaf and rest for the night, hiding in the darkness, alone and vulnerable until the sun powered her wings again at dawn. Libby trailed the creature around the pond to see where it would land. If the night stayed warm, she might curl up beside the butterfly to rest, but not now. She no longer had to hide in these gardens. Soon the moonlight would glaze the paths with gold, and she would explore for hours, enveloped in the shadows and the light.
Melanie Dobson (Shadows of Ladenbrooke Manor)
What Claire could do with the edible flowers that grew around the cranky apple tree in the backyard was the stuff of legend. Everyone knew that if you got Claire to cater your anniversary party, she would make aioli sauce with nasturtiums and tulip cups filled with orange salad, and everyone would leave the party feeling both jealous and aroused. And if you got her to cater your child's birthday party, she would serve tiny strawberry cupcakes and candied violets and the children would all be well behaved and would take long afternoon naps. Claire had a true magic to her cooking when she used her flowers.
Sarah Addison Allen (First Frost (Waverley Family, #2))
My eyes blinked like a camera shutter clicking through the frames of my life, except the images were mismatched and haphazard: a ragged-looking doll with a rose-colored dress; crocheted white baby mittens, slightly unraveled; a row of tulips, vibrant red; Rex's smile; a rusty weather vane whirling in the wind. My eyelids fluttered, fighting to remain open, but when they closed, the welcoming image that waited beckoned me to stay, promising to give me the comfort, the peace I longed for. The camellias. I could see them, seemingly endless rows of big, bushy green trees with waxy leaves and showy flowers the size of saucers. Pinks, reds- bursting into bloom, as if they'd been painted by the Queen of Hearts.
Sarah Jio (The Last Camellia)
He suspects she’s flirting with him. It’s far from disagreeable, but, perversely, it makes him think of his mother. How many acceptable young girls has she trailed discreetly before him, like feathered fishing lures? She arranges them, always, next to a vase of white flowers. Their morals have been irreproachable, their manners candid as spring water; their minds have been presented to him as unbaked pieces of dough which it would be his prerogative to mould and form. As one season’s crop of girls proceeds into engagement and marriage, younger ones keep sprouting up, like tulips in May. They are now so young in relation to Simon that he has trouble conversing with them; it’s like talking to a basketful of kittens.
Margaret Atwood (Alias Grace)
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
Sylvia Plath (Ariel)
As the dawn was just breaking he found himself close to Covent Garden. The darkness lifted, and, flushed with faint fires, the sky hollowed itself into a perfect pearl. Huge carts filled with nodding lilies rumbled slowly down the polished empty street. The air was heavy with the perfume of the flowers, and their beauty seemed to bring him an anodyne for his pain. He followed into the market, and watched the men unloading their wagons. A white-smocked carter offered him some cherries. He thanked him, and wondered why he refused to accept any money for them, and began to eat them listlessly. They had been plucked at midnight, and the coldness of the moon had entered into them. A long line of boys carrying crates of striped tulips, and of yellow and red roses, defiled in front of him, threading their way through the huge, jade-green piles of vegetables.
Oscar Wilde (The Picture of Dorian Gray)
The hill between the manor and forest displayed layers of Lady Croft's prized gardens. Paved pathways wove through a formal Italian garden, rose garden, water garden, lily pond, and a tulip garden built around Roman ruins. Maggie stood beside a statue of the goddess Hemera and a row of yew bushes that had been neatly pruned into a wall to form the perimeter of the Croft family maze. Walter sat nearby on a picnic blanket as she scanned the hillside above the maze to see if she could find Libby's copper-streaked hair among the immaculate gardens and all the people dressed in their finest for this entree into Ladenbrooke's gardens. The Croft family opened the front gate to the public once each summer. Hundreds of people from around the Cotswolds came to peruse Lady Croft's magnificent displays- the golden heather, purple dahlias, peach lilies floating on the pond.
Melanie Dobson (Shadows of Ladenbrooke Manor)
February gave way to March, with its bursting colors of a too-early spring. Such warm weather was a welcome contrast to the near freezes of the previous year, as if this newborn century was impatient to exhibit its glory and all the unforeseen changes it would bring. Alice’s heart expanded at the sight of white snowdrops in lieu of absent snow; the vivid purples of wild petunias, pincushion flowers, and irises laced with the varying hues of tulips; and the glorious flowering shrubs---azaleas and camellias---lighting up the shade, covered entirely in blossoms as if they nurtured blooms but no leaves. She had seen the prairie carpeted in wildflowers, but this display was unlike that wild one of nature, somehow singularly intimate and welcoming, whereas the prairie engulfed and dwarfed her. There is not one thing that humankind has done on earth that is equal to one square inch of this, she thought.
Diane C. McPhail (The Seamstress of New Orleans)
I look at the one red smile. The red of the smile is the same as the red of the tulips in Serena Joy’s garden, towards the base of the flowers where they are beginning to heal. The red is the same but there is no connection. The tulips are not tulips of blood, the red smiles are not flowers, neither thing makes a comment on the other. The tulip is not a reason for disbelief in the hanged man, or vice versa. Each thing is valid and really there. It is through a field of such valid objects that I must pick my way, every day and in every way. I put a lot of effort into making such distinctions. I need to make them. I need to be very clear, in my own mind. I feel a tremor in the woman beside me. Is she crying? In what way could it make her look good? I can’t afford to know. My own hands are clenched, I note, tight around the handle of my basket. I won’t give anything away. Ordinary, said Aunt Lydia, is what you are used to. This may not seem ordinary to you now, but after a time it will. It will become ordinary.
Margaret Atwood (The Handmaid's Tale (The Handmaid's Tale, #1))
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.
Olena Kalytiak Davis (And Her Soul Out Of Nothing)
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.
Olena Kalytiak Davis (And Her Soul Out Of Nothing)
The rapid growth of Message- combined with an outpouring of florists offering consultations in the language of flowers to the streams of brides Marlena and I turned away- caused a subtle but concrete shift in the Bay Area flower industry. Marlena reported that peony, marigold, and lavender lingered in their plastic buckets at the flower market while tulips, lilac, and passionflower sold out before the sun rose. For the first time anyone could remember, jonquil became available long after its natural bloom season had ended. By the end of July, bold brides carried ceramic bowls of strawberries or fragrant clusters of fennel, and no one questioned their aesthetics but rather marveled at the simplicity of their desire. If the trajectory continued, I realized, Message would alter the quantities of anger, grief, and mistrust growing in the earth on a massive scale. Farmers would uproot fields of foxglove to plant yarrow, the soft clusters of pink, yellow, and cream the cure to a broken heart. The prices of sage, ranunculus, and stock would steadily increase. Plum trees would be planted for the sole purpose of harvesting their delicate, clustered blossoms and sunflowers would fall permanently out of fashion, disappearing from flower stands, craft stores, and country kitchens. Thistle would be cleared compulsively from empty lots and overgrown gardens.
Vanessa Diffenbaugh (The Language of Flowers)
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
Nūr ad-Dīn 'Abd ar-Rahmān Jāmī
Yes, my friend, ship wreckage was once the wood of a tree, nothing special about it - just like any other kind of wood. Men cut down the tree. They sawed and worked and planed and shaped and polished and caulked and tarred it. They made a ship out it, and they celebrated the birth of that ship, they christened it like a child. And they entrusted themselves to it. But the men were no longer very much in charge. The ship too had its say. A ship’s a being in its own right, like a person, so to speak, that thinks, and breathes, and reacts. A ship has its own mission to accomplish. It has its own destiny. So it sinks, this vessel, it founders because it was meant to founder, on such a day at such a time, on account of this or that, and in such a place. Maybe it was already written in the stars. And then long afterwards, other men discover the wreck, they refloat it, they bring to the surface the bits of wood — and you should see with what respect they do this. And you think a piece of wreckage like that doesn’t know anything, doesn’t remember anything, isn’t capable of anything, that it’s as senseless as it is hard, that it’s. . . as thick as a plank? I’ll tell you something worth remembering, that sailors well know: wood from a shipwreck is “back-flash” wood. Whatever takes place under the auspices and under the sign of even the smallest fragment ot a shipwreck cuts more than just one way. One swinish deed is multiplied a thousandfold; one flower’, (he meant, a kindness),'will bring you a field full of flowers, an entire province, tulips, cyclamens, take your pick. For instance: there’s shipwreck wood in the base frame of the sign of the four sergeants. That’s something “the likes of us” know. Well, once that guy was through,’ (he meant, the man who’d been praying), ‘I guarantee, the judge, every member of the jury, the prosecutor, the warders, the hangman, his assistants, the whole damn lot of them are going to get their comeuppance, and how! From now on they’re jinxed. Seriously jinxed. And for a long time to come.
Jacques Yonnet (Paris Noir: The Secret History of a City)
… But how do I create my charioteer? Or do I want to be my own charioteer? I can guide myself only with will and intention. But will and intention are simply part of myself. Consequently they are insufficient to express my wholeness. Intention is what I can foresee, and willing is to want a foreseen goal. But where do I find the goal? I take it from what is presently known to me. Thus I set the present in place of the future. In this manner, though I cannot reach the future, I artificially produce a constant present. Everything that would like to break into this present strikes me as a disturbance, and I seek to drive it away so that my intention survives. Thus I close off the progress of life. But how can I be my own charioteer without will and intention? Therefore a wise man does not want to be a charioteer, for he knows that will and intention certainly attain goals but disturb the becoming of the future. Futurity grows out of me; I do not create it, and yet I do, though not deliberately and wilfully, but rather against will and intention. If I want to create the future, then I work against my future. And if I do not want to create it, once again I do not take sufficient part in the creation of the future, and everything happens then according to unavoidable laws to which I fall victim. The ancient devised magic to compel fate. They needed it to determine outer fate. We need it to determine inner fate and to find the way that we are unable to conceive. For a long time I considered what type of magic this would have to be. And in the end I found nothing. Whoever cannot find it within himself should become an apprentice, and so I took myself off to a far country where a great magician lived, of whose reputation I had heard. The Magician After a long search I found the small house in the country fronted by a large bed of tulips. This is where Philemon, the magician, lives with his wife Baucis. Philemon is one of those magicians who has not yet managed to banish old age, but who lives it with dignity, and his wife can only do the same. Their interests seem to have become narrow, even childish. They water their bed of tulips and tell each about the flowers that have newly appeared. And their days fade into a pale wavering chiaracuso, lit up by the past, only slightly frightened of the darkness of what is to come.
C.G. Jung (The Red Book: Liber Novus)
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.
Sarah Addison Allen (Garden Spells (Waverly Family #1))
Knock, knock. Who's there? A: Lettuce Q: Lettuce who? A: Lettuce in, it's freezing out here.. . 2. Q: What do elves learn in school? A: The elf-abet . 3. Q: Why was 6 afraid of 7? A: Because: 7 8 9 . . 4. Q. how do you make seven an even number? A. Take out the s! . 5. Q: Which dog can jump higher than a building? A: Anydog – Buildings can’t jump! . 6. Q: Why do bananas have to put on sunscreen before they go to the beach? A: Because they might peel! . 7. Q. How do you make a tissue dance? A. You put a little boogie in it. . 8. Q: Which flower talks the most? A: Tulips, of course, 'cause they have two lips! . 9. Q: Where do pencils go for vacation? A: Pencil-vania . 10. Q: What did the mushroom say to the fungus? A: You're a fun guy [fungi]. . 11. Q: Why did the girl smear peanut butter on the road? A: To go with the traffic jam! . 11. Q: What do you call cheese that’s not yours? A: Nacho cheese! . 12. Q: Why are ghosts bad liars? A: Because you can see right through them. . 13. Q: Why did the boy bring a ladder to school? A: He wanted to go to high school. . 14. Q: How do you catch a unique animal? A: You neak up on it. Q: How do you catch a tame one? A: Tame way. . 15. Q: Why is the math book always mad? A: Because it has so many problems. . 16. Q. What animal would you not want to pay cards with? A. Cheetah . 17. Q: What was the broom late for school? A: Because it over swept. . 18. Q: What music do balloons hate? A: Pop music. . 19. Q: Why did the baseball player take his bat to the library? A: Because his teacher told him to hit the books. . 20. Q: What did the judge say when the skunk walked in the court room? A: Odor in the court! . 21. Q: Why are fish so smart? A: Because they live in schools. . 22. Q: What happened when the lion ate the comedian? A: He felt funny! . 23. Q: What animal has more lives than a cat? A: Frogs, they croak every night! . 24. Q: What do you get when you cross a snake and a pie? A: A pie-thon! . 25. Q: Why is a fish easy to weigh? A: Because it has its own scales! . 26. Q: Why aren’t elephants allowed on beaches? A:They can’t keep their trunks up! . 27. Q: How did the barber win the race? A: He knew a shortcut! . 28. Q: Why was the man running around his bed? A: He wanted to catch up on his sleep. . 29. Q: Why is 6 afraid of 7? A: Because 7 8 9! . 30. Q: What is a butterfly's favorite subject at school? A: Mothematics. Jokes by Categories 20 Mixed Animal Jokes Animal jokes are some of the funniest jokes around. Here are a few jokes about different animals. Specific groups will have a fun fact that be shared before going into the jokes. 1. Q: What do you call a sleeping bull? A: A bull-dozer. . 2. Q: What to polar bears eat for lunch? A: Ice berg-ers! . 3. Q: What do you get from a pampered cow? A: Spoiled milk.
Peter MacDonald (Best Joke Book for Kids: Best Funny Jokes and Knock Knock Jokes (200+ Jokes) : Over 200 Good Clean Jokes For Kids)
In 1853, Haussmann began the incredible transformation of Paris, reconfiguring the city into 20 manageable arrondissements, all linked with grand, gas-lit boulevards and new arteries of running water to feed large public parks and beautiful gardens influenced greatly by London’s Kew Gardens. In every quarter, the indefatigable prefect, in concert with engineer Jean-Charles Alphand, refurbished neglected estates such as Parc Monceau and the Jardin du Luxembourg, and transformed royal hunting enclaves into new parks such as enormous Bois de Boulogne and Bois de Vincennes. They added romantic Parc des Buttes Chaumont and Parc Montsouris in areas that were formerly inhospitable quarries, as well as dozens of smaller neighborhood gardens that Alphand described as "green and flowering salons." Thanks to hothouses that sprang up in Paris, inspired by England’s prefabricated cast iron and glass factory buildings and huge exhibition halls such as the Crystal Palace, exotic blooms became readily available for small Parisian gardens. For example, nineteenth-century metal and glass conservatories added by Charles Rohault de Fleury to the Jardin des Plantes, Louis XIII’s 1626 royal botanical garden for medicinal plants, provided ideal conditions for orchids, tulips, and other plant species from around the globe. Other steel structures, such as Victor Baltard’s 12 metal and glass market stalls at Les Halles in the 1850s, also heralded the coming of Paris’s most enduring symbol, Gustave Eiffel’s 1889 Universal Exposition tower, and the installation of steel viaducts for trains to all parts of France. Word of this new Paris brought about emulative City Beautiful movements in most European capitals, and in the United States, Bois de Boulogne and Parc des Buttes Chaumont became models for Frederick Law Olmsted’s Central Park in New York. Meanwhile, for Parisians fascinated by the lakes, cascades, grottoes, lawns, flowerbeds, and trees that transformed their city from just another ancient capital into a lyrical, magical garden city, the new Paris became a textbook for cross-pollinating garden ideas at any scale. Royal gardens and exotic public pleasure grounds of the Second Empire became springboards for gardens such as Bernard Tschumi’s vast, conceptual Parc de La Villette, with its modern follies, and “wild” jardins en mouvement at the Fondation Cartier and the Musée du Quai Branly. In turn, allées of trees in some classic formal gardens were allowed to grow freely or were interleaved with wildflower meadows and wild grasses for their unsung beauty. Private gardens hidden behind hôtel particulier walls, gardens in spacious suburbs, city courtyards, and minuscule rooftop terraces, became expressions of old and very new gardens that synthesized nature, art, and outdoors living.
Zahid Sardar (In & Out of Paris: Gardens of Secret Delights)
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
Teresa Leo (Bloom in Reverse (Pitt Poetry Series))
I’m taking notes for the Good Boyfriend app on my smartphone. Velvety dark chocolate, check. What are your favorite flowers?" "Tulips. There’s a Good Boyfriend App?" She was laughing openly again. "If there isn’t, there should be. An alarm goes off on birthdays and important anniversaries, and there’s a little Google map of the female anatomy so you know exactly where to flick your tongue during oral sex.
Linda Barlow (The Dangerous Hero)
Once, after I’d left him, I stayed in bed for three days with a stack of novels and several packets of custard creams and I bled without restraint. I wanted to see how much of a gorgeous, spicy mess one womb-governed body could make. I wanted to turn the bed sheet into a Rorschach test, a map, a missive, a squeeze, a jubilant shout. I made scabs and poppies. I bred silky scarlet gloop and jammy crusts, liver spots, dropped plums. Then I let it dry and pinned it up on the wall. I spent a lot of time looking at it, deciphering the shapes. There were horses, waves, church spires, tulips, crocuses, lotus flowers, fiery dragoons. It was really quite beautiful and energising to see it hung like a painting, exuding the vague scents of malt, seaweed and yeast. It made me feel quite empowered. All that blood. All my thick, rich healthy blood. All those clever stains I’d created.
Sarah Eyre (The New Abject: Tales of Modern Unease)
For three days the child lay in his parents' house, surrounded by spring flowers, narcissus, tulips, and Christmas roses, in a sealed coffin, small & white.
Josef Winkler (When the Time Comes)
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TCU Florist
In planting a border, always keep in mind the fact that it should be blooming from May to November. Put in the plants according to height, the tallest, of course, at the back and the lowest in front, filling the front also with spring-flowering bulbs, Daffodils, Tulips and Narcissi, which will blossom and be over before the plants come on. You will thus have the longest succession of bloom. If the border is quite wide—from four to six feet—and perhaps one hundred and fifty feet long, it will hold a surprising number of plants.
Helena Rutherfurd Ely
By the way, the zombie was eating a blue orchid, which was roughly the same color as his shirt. So in this picture, it kinda looks like he’s eating his own shirt. He wasn’t, though. Of course, I could have changed the flower to, say, a pink tulip or something. But I’m going for accuracy here.
Cube Kid (Diary of an 8-Bit Warrior: Crafting Alliances (8-Bit Warrior, #3))
So the smells I associate with the Elders are freshly cut garden flower arrangements- roses, lilac and endless sweet peas and the fougère hints of random greenery lavishly added to the vases, in the Constance Spry style. Also, modest shop-bought flowers, particularly daffodils, tulips and freesias, which are such an economical way to brighten a room for that thrifty generation. My scents for the elders are: Lavender by Yardley Blue Grass by Elizabeth Arden Rose in Wonderland by Atkinsons Femme by Rochas Ostara by Penhaligon's Tweed by Lenthéric (A mention of this elicited a big response at the event; it seemed all the women had worn it at some time and had happy associations with it. I do wish they would re-release it in the original tweed-fabric effect box.) The men in this age group are the last of the true British gentlemen, so especially for them: Old Spice St Johns Bay Rum by St Johns Fragrance Company Royal Mayfair by Creed
Maggie Alderson (The Scent of You)
During the dinner, Pieter Wynants' cousin Hendrick Jan several times suggested to Geertruyt Schoudt that she might like to buy a pound of tulip bulbs. These were Switsers, which, along with Coornharts, were the most popular sort of bulbs in late 1636 and 1637. Switsers, which were red and yellow striped flowers named after Swiss mercenary soldiers and celebrated by various poets, including Andrew Marvell, would have been in bulb form at the beginning of February and, for their own good health, buried in someone's garden. Schoudt would have to take the bulbs on trust, although as she was through various ties closely bound to the Wynants family, this was perhaps not such a problem.
Anne Goldgar (Tulipmania: Money, Honor, and Knowledge in the Dutch Golden Age)
Admirael de Mans that were of sufficient quality. Seys, at the center of a variety of tulip deals, knew what a good Admirael de Man looked like. It was likewise an excuse for Susanna Sprangers (sister of the important Amsterdam art collector Gommer Spranger), when trying to extricate herself from a bad deal with Lambert Massa (buyer of art at auction, connected with various art dealers, and brother of an important Muscovy merchant who was painted by Hals), that she knew nothing about tulips: "having no knowledge of the flowers nor knowing the worth of them....
Anne Goldgar (Tulipmania: Money, Honor, and Knowledge in the Dutch Golden Age)
He walked through the gardens, and on the way to the stables, he spied tulips that were hanging their heads from the rainstorm this morning. He thought of how Lady Rose had lifted her face to the rain, reveling in the storm. It seemed that she was trying to savor every last drop of joy out of life. He decided to cut a few flowers for her, and perhaps some for Lady Penford as well. Deeper
Michelle Willingham (Good Earls Don't Lie (The Earls Next Door Book 1))
Can you revive wilted tulips?
Shannon Mullen (See What Flowers)
Emery was kneeling outside “gardening” when Ceony and Langston stepped through the illusion that masked the paper magician’s house. He had positioned himself outside the curving garden of meticulously crafted paper flowers, and seemed to be replacing all the red, tulip-shaped flower heads with blue, lily-shaped ones. Fennel chewed on the discarded spells as Emery worked, crumpling them in his paper mouth and then spitting the balls into an overturned trash receptacle.
Charlie N. Holmberg (The Glass Magician (The Paper Magician, #2))
The famous Dutch tulip bubble largely involved the frenzied trading of options to buy or sell the bulbs—a precursor to modern-day stock options—rather than transactions involving the actual flowers.
David Enrich (The Spider Network: How a Math Genius and a Gang of Scheming Bankers Pulled Off One of the Greatest Scams in History)
These seeds will always be tulips, even if at the moment you cannot tell them apart from other flowers.
Paulo Coelho (The Spy)
Emeline couldn't remember when, exactly, things changed. Only that a moment ago she was walking down palace halls and now she walked a dirt path beneath a midnight sky. Tulip trees lined the path, their flowers unfolding like burning yellow crowns among their green leaves. The farther they walked, the taller the trees grew, until they were impossibly tall. So tall, they seemed to brush the stars. The path ended in a grove of silver birches. Moonlight pooled in from the canopy above, illuminating a bone-white throne and a man seated upon it. Atop his head sat a crown of rosebud thorns. His skin was sunbrowned, his hair moon pale; and instead of robes, water adorned him. It flowed in rivers from his hair, over his neck and shoulders where it began to gush, like a waterfall, down the rest of his body. Emeline could see no glimpse of skin beyond the cascade, but at his feet water pooled and sank into the brown earth. Wherever it touched, gray and purple thistles grew. The Wood King.
Kristen Ciccarelli (Edgewood)
Dining tables were dressed in hunter-green velvet linens. Royal Staffordshire Tonquin Brown dinner plates sat on top of hammered copper chargers. Cut-crystal drinkware and hammered copper tumblers glinted in the candlelight and strands of twinkle lights. Vintage brass and low copper vessels overflowed with garden roses, tulips, and amaryllis in various shades of cream, peach, and burnt orange along with lush greenery. Berries and russet feathers peeked out every so often, and antlers interspersed at odd angles. Reminiscent of an enchanted woodland from a C.S. Lewis novel, this was by far my favorite design Cedric had ever created.
Mary Hollis Huddleston (Without a Hitch)
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.
Nicole Sobon (Collide: Episode Two (The Collide Series Book 2))
If a burglar had thrown his large duffel bag out the window, like Sam said, then jumped out the window after it, he would have flattened the tulips in the planter box outside - they certainly wouldn’t be “thriving!” Chuck realized that Sam must have simply waited until there was only a single other customer in the store, then convinced that customer to leave by the back door, with Sam opening it for him. That way, it would appear on the video camera that the customer entered the store but never left, thus lending credence to Sam’s claim that he jumped out the window. Then, Sam stole all the flowers himself, smuggling them out the back door and into his truck for later resale.
Andrew Stanek (Super Quick Mysteries, Volume 1)
...a flash of colour amid a shadowy, gloomy background made me stop, a riot of colour and texture that compelled me to face the gilded frame. I'd never- never- seen anything like it. It's just a still life, a part of me said. And it was: a green glass vase with an assortment of flowers drooping over its narrow top, blossoms and leaves of every shape and size and colour- roses, tulips, morning glory, goldenrod, maiden's lace, peonies... The skill it must have taken to make them look so lifelike, to make them more than lifelike... Just a vase of flowers against a dark background- but more than that; the flowers seemed to be vibrant with their own light, as if in defiance of the shadows gathered around them. The mastery needed to make the glass vase hold that light, to bend the light with the water within, as if the vase did indeed have weight to it atop its stone pedestal... Remarkable.
Sarah J. Maas (A Court of Thorns and Roses (A Court of Thorns and Roses, #1))
This is simply another failure of imagination: nature is not only to be found “out there”; it is also “in here,” in the apple and the potato, in the garden and the kitchen, even in the brain of a man beholding the beauty of a tulip or inhaling the smoke from a burning cannabis flower.
Michael Pollan (The Botany of Desire: A Plant's-Eye View of the World)
One spring, in a rain shower, I dug up all my tulips in full bloom and wandered around the yard holding them by their two-foot necks, with the bulb and roots dangling down and the tulip flowers staring up at me with their big Cyclops-like eyes. I decided, based on color, just where to relocate each one. If you move plants in the rain, they hardly even know it, and they did just fine. Today is a perfect snail-letting-go day.
Elisabeth Tova Bailey (The Sound of a Wild Snail Eating)
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...
Bodhi Smith
The most valued tulips were those with brilliant streaks and stripes of colors, then thought to be the mark of distinction, and now known by botanists to be the evidence of a devastating flower virus spread by aphids.
Susan Orlean (The Orchid Thief: A True Story of Beauty and Obsession)
From behind his back, he pulled out a single tulip, my favorite flower--- pure white, with the very tip of each petal tinged red. I had never seen a tulip like that, and it nearly took my breath away.
Sarah Jio (The Violets of March)
Black-Eyed Susans, Cosmos, Globe Amaranth, Phlox, Daylilies, and Shasta Daisies Daylilies, Taro, Coneflower, Black-Eyed Susan, Yarrow, and Lavender Global Thistle, Silver Sage, Columbine, and Bee Balm Tulips, Daffodils, Hosta, Grape Hyacinth, and Asters
Gabe Mabry (Flower Gardening for Beginners: The Essential 3-Step System on How to Plant Flowers, Grow from Seeds, Design Your Landscape, and Maintain a Beautiful Flower Yard)