Discover the most popular and inspiring quotes and sayings on the topic of Vases. Share them with your friends on social media platforms like Facebook, Twitter, or your personal blogs, and let the world be inspired by their powerful messages. Here are the Top 100 Vases Quotes And Sayings by 93 Authors including Martha Finley,Devon Monk,Oscar Wilde,Gertrude Jekyll,Matshona Dhliwayo for you to enjoy and share.
the large buckets about the
Stone and blocks, like butter and bread.
Chrysanthemums from gilded argosy
Unload their gaudy senseless merchandise.
In garden arrangement, as in all other kinds of decorative work, one has not only to acquire a knowledge of what to do, but also to gain some wisdom in perceiving what it is well to let alone.
Seeds pour out oil when pressed.
Grapes pour out wine when squeezed.
Herbs pour out medicine when pounded.
Flowers pour out perfume when crushed.
The gifted pour out excellence when tested.
Flowers construct the most charming geometries: circles like the sun, ovals, cones, curlicues and a variety of triangular eccentricities, which when viewed with the eye of a magnifying glass seem a Lilliputian frieze of psychedelic silhouettes.
My words are little jars For you to take and put upon a shelf. Their shapes are quaint and beautiful, And they have many pleasant colours and lustres To recommend them. Also the scent from them fills the room With sweetness of flowers and crushed grasses.
The wild-flower wreath of feeling, the sunbeam of the heart.
Heap not on this mound roses that she loved so well; why bewilder her with roses that she cannot see or smell.
Still more labyrinthine buds the rose.
I have here only made a nosegay of culled flowers, and have brought nothing of my own but the thread that tied them together.
He wants the jars that have caught the morning light; I think he believes they hold little pieces of the sun.
Molly grabbed a vase off the mantel and flung it at the wall, knocking it into a painting of a mountain scene. The vase shattered and the picture frame swayed back and forth on the wall, taunting her with an image of what life was supposed to be like. . .
June brings tulips, lilies, roses,
Fills the children's hands with posies.
bowls of cornflakes,
Gorgeous flowerets in the sunlight shining, Blossoms flaunting in the eye of day, Tremulous leaves, with soft and silver lining, Buds that open only to decay.
Where, with your one rose you can buy hundreds of rose gardens?
Herbs, and other country messes, Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses.
Stones were eternal-flowers were not
It seems Montgomery could not help himself when it came to this vase. I'm afraid he has a weakness for beautiful things and has been known to relocate an item if he feels it is not being accorded the proper appreciation. Once he 'relocated' an ancient sculpture from the home of another archangel.
I shall be forever grateful to you for breaking whatever unfortunate object you did in order to rescue me."
"Something had to be done, she said, "and it was a very ugly vase.
The tulips along the border are redder than ever, opening, no longer wine cups but chalices; thrusting themselves up, to what end? They are, after all, empty. When they are old they turn themselves inside out, explode slowly, the petals thrown like shards.
Daffodil bulbs instead of balls
Stared from the sockets of the eyes!
He knew that thought clings round dead limbs
Tightening its lusts and luxuries.
Oblong stones sink
slow and sideways. Shaped
by the weight of waves,
dutifully vibrating nature's
lunar-bound graces,
they wash ashore only for
closed palms to forsake them.
The cheerful will
cherish them, place them
on windowsills, or on graves.
Figs that drip with honey, sugar blown into curls and flowers.
This is a floral abortion,' Ignatius commented irritably and tapped the vase with his cutlas. 'Dyed flowers are unnatural and perverse and, I suspect, obscene also. I can see that I am going to have my hands full with you people.
Ephemeral and useless, flowers exemplify the gratuitousness of occasions that mean expenses and luxury; blooming in vases, doomed to a rapid death, flowers are ceremonial bonfires, incense and myrrh, libation, sacrifice.
Your petal from the salty rose
I marched into the shop and bought the vases.
A flowerless room is a soulless room, to my way of thinking; but even a solitary little vase of a living flower may redeem it.
That kill the bloom before its time, And blanch, without the owner's crime, The most resplendent hair.
Fair fresh leaves, and buds - and buds - tiny at first but swelling and working Magic until they burst and uncurled into cups of scent delicately spilling themselves over their brims and filling the garden air.
Leaves. Hundreds, thousands, maybe millions of them, brown and yellow and red and orange, in bright piles on the concrete floor. Some were so high they almost covered the rosebushes.
Cheap, sentimental things
She understood. They were plastic flowers of words - but they looked nice on the surface.
Scrolls, notebooks, tablet computers, daggers, and a large bowl filled with jelly beans,
On a table behind the dowager stood a vase containing three white lilies. The flowers were large and fleshy white, like little animals from an alien land that were deep in meditation.
In the general course of things, when beauty passes, the flower bows its head upon the stem and fails. Sometimes, though, when the petals droop, a framework of tempered steel is revealed within.
The green garden, moonlit pool, lemons, lovers, and fish are all dissolved in the opal sky, across which, as the horns are joined by trumpets and supported by clarions there rise white arches firmly planted on marble pillars ...
Our lives are a mosaic of little things, like putting a rose in a vase on the table.
usually sees only at Christmas. At last he reached in and tenderly removed his gift of glass from the carton. "A geranium! I cannot believe it. A pelargonium
The objects I chose were designed to hold something, but I didn't fill them up. They remained empty. They were little symbolic shrines to thirst.
a child is a fire to be lit, not a vase to be filled
A rose with all its sweetest leaves yet folded.
The world laughs in flowers.
Nothing ... They're from nothing,' he said. 'They came in the book ... I found the book and inside were these flowers ... They were in the book when I bought it ... I bought it used ... Because they meant something.
'To someone else.'
'To someone.
Chopsticks box! I didn't know before and put them on the table and my Japan friends scolded me.
Love, love,
I have hung our cave with roses.
(Carnations) The only flower that, when given to someone, is marginally superior to dead ones.
Her little treasures. Each item reminding her of someone or of something.
Masterpieces of beauty, craftsmanship, and stability, all erected
Plastic flowers last for hours
It is necessary that the object that the artist is shaping, whether it be a vase of clay or a fishing boat, be significant of something other than itself. This object must be a sign as well as an object; a meaning must animate it, and make it say more than it is.
The roses Had the look of flowers that are looked at.
...like the roses and begonias they seemed to take and hold the richly filtered evening light.
But it is not for the perfect vase or the polished gem to choose their owners.
A bag of apples, a pot of homemade jam, a scribbled note, a bunch of golden flowers, a coloured pebble, a box of seedlings, an empty scent bottle for the children ... Who needs diamonds and van-delivered bouquets?
She plucked a rose and held it to her face. She hated the way roses smelled, their sweetness too fragile. She wanted a garden of evergreens. A garden of stones. A garden of swords.
A few blossoms float into the room. They drop like frayed yellow ribbons on the gray carpet.
Buttercups and daisies,
Oh, the pretty flowers;
Coming ere the spring time,
To tell of sunny hours.
When the trees are leafless;
When the fields are bare;
Buttercups and daisies
Spring up here and there.
All sorts of flowers the which on earth do spring
In goodly colours gloriously arrayed;
Go to my love, where she is careless laid
Flowers are the gift to us from nature, out gift to nature is our love.
In the Kamigata area, they have a sort of tiered lunchbox they use for a single day when flower viewing. Upon returning, they throw them away, trampling them underfoot. The end is important in all things.
or complementary stones, are arranged nearby.
But lilies, stolen from grassy mold, No more curled state unfold, Translated to a vase of gold; In burning throne though they keep still Serenities unthawed and chill.
birch twigs, and a willow binding. The ash is protective, the birch is purifying, and the willow is sacred to the Goddesss. Of
Tsze-kung asked, "What do you think of me?" The Master said, "You are a pot." "What sort of pot?" "A precious ritual vase.
An un-blossomed rose, in the garden we want to grow.
Go outside! I mean, even leaves from a park are beautiful in a clear glass vase. I'd rather see that than fake anything any day.
Flowers are happy things.
Flowers that are so pathetic in their beauty, frail as the clouds, and in their coloring as gorgeous as the heavens, had through thousands of years been the heritage of children - honored as the jewelry of God ...
And a whimsical ceramic sugar bowl shaped like an octopus.
Flowers of all hue, and without thorn the rose.
Jars neither of wine nor of water shall fail in the houses of the rich.
Good heavens, of what un costly material is our earthly happiness composed ... if we only knew it. What incomes have we not had from a flower, and how unfailing are the dividends of the seasons.
Bring the buds of the hazel-copse, Where two lovers kissed at noon; Bring the crushed red wild-thyme tops Where they murmured under the moon ...
Not flowers - never flowers in Terrasen. Instead, they carried small stones to graves to mark their visits, to tell the dead that they still remembered.
All the English flowers came from Shakespeare. I don't know what we did before his time.
The Secret Places of the Heart
With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head, And every flower that sad embroidery wears.
The sweetest flowers in all the world- A baby's hands.
Boots, bushes, gardens, storefronts, buildings, streets, and stars. Why, she would have had to re-create the globe for them. But the best they got was fish. And the Boy loved them.
Gather the flowers, but spare the buds.
Figurines and souvenirs and kickshaws and mementos and gewgaws and bric-a-brac, everything either useless to begin with or ornamented so as to disguise its use; acres of luxuries, acres of excrement.
- Nothing. Although they are flowers you did not count on, they are still part of the garden.
Hidden inside every flower are seeds of imagination, destiny and future dreams.
If you look at every flower individually, they look quite miserable. Put them together in a vase and they become a bouquet and that's quite attractive. I think about our community often in that way
A table, a chair, a bowl of fruit and a violin; what else does a man need to be happy?
The bud
stands for all things,
even for those things that don't flower
When the sappy boughs Attire themselves with blooms, sweet rudiments Of future harvest.
That's it. Curtains. Off to the races. Treetops. Seashells and balloons.
There is to me a daintiness about early flowers that touches me like poetry. They blow out with such a simple loveliness among the common herbs of pastures, and breathe their lives so unobtrusively, like hearts whose beatings are too gentle for the world.
I pray, what flowers are these? The pansy this, O, that's for lover's thoughts.
He'd seen a lot of bizarre items left at gravesides, like a carton of eggs, a pair of reading glasses, a bag of licorice, smooth stones, a spoon.
Nancy taught two hens to help her sort flowers to make leis. She set them down by a basket of three colors of plastic flowers. One hen quickly pulled out all the red flowers, and another the white ones, leaving the pink flowers in the basket.
Flowers, for instance, because where would we be without them?
The instinctive and universal taste of mankind selects flowers for the expression of its finest sympathies, their beauty and their fleetingness serving to make them the most fitting symbols of those delicate sentiments for which language itself seems almost too gross a medium.
A flower blooms best in a happy pot.
I like not lady-slippers, Nor yet the sweet-pea blossoms, Nor yet the flaky roses, Red or white as snow; I like the chaliced lilies, The heavy Eastern lilies, The gorgeous tiger-lilies, That in our garden grow.
He said that it always struck him with surprise that while men in buying an earthen or glass vase would sound it first to learn if it were good, yet in choosing a wife they were content with only looking at her.
Flowers grows in silence, quietly, slowly, passionately, with great love and with all its power just perfectly.