Vita Sackville-West Quotes

I have drunken deep of joy, And I will taste no other wine tonight.

Flowers make me irrationally happy.

Flowers are happy things.

Happiness? A good cigar, a good meal, a good cigar and a good woman - or a bad woman; it depends on how much happiness you can handle.

Pleasure is often spoiled by describing it.

There are some days when I think I'm going to die from an overdose of satisfaction.

I have always said and felt that true enjoyment can not be described.

The idea that happiness could have a share in beauty would be too much of a good thing.

To me, flowers are happiness.

To be overcome by the fragrance of flowers is a delectable form of defeat.

I sometimes wonder whether all pleasures are not substitutes for joy.

Earth laughs in flowers.

Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses, a box where sweets compacted lie.

What we call happiness in the strictest sense comes from the (preferably sudden) satisfaction of needs which have been dammed up to a high degree.

I'm looking for joy.

You could wonder for hours what flowers mean, but for me, they're life itself, in all its happy brilliance. We couldn't do with out flowers. Flowers help you forget life's tragedies.

Observation is the most enduring of the pleasures of life.

Lovely flowers are the smiles of god's goodness.

‎There's no way to cheat a sensualist like me, somebody who can die laughing for hours over the pattern of the carpet in a hotel lobby.

This is a delicious evening, when the whole body is one sense, and imbibes delight through every pore.

Ecstasy and vulnerability belonged in the same dish. The fear the cup would be snatched away was what gave the wine its savor.

Then my heart with pleasure fills And dances with the daffodils.

When music sounds, gone is the earth I know, And all her lovelier things even lovelier grow; Her flowers in vision flame, her forest trees Lift burdened branches, stilled with ecstasies. When music sounds, out of the water rise Naiads whose beauty dims my waking eyes, Rapt in strange dream burns each enchanted face, With solemn echoing stirs their dwelling-place. When music sounds, all that I was I am Ere to this haunt of brooding dust I came; And from Time's woods break into distant song The swift-winged hours, as I hasten along.

Do anything, but let it produce joy. Do anything, but let it yield ecstasy.

Look at the flowers-for no reason. It is simply unbelievable how happy flowers are.