I love giving flowers. It is so deliciously unlasting and romantic.
When a daffadill I see, Hanging down his head towards me, Guess I may, what I must be: First, I shall decline my head; Secondly, I shall be dead: Lastly, safely buryed.
I pray, what flowers are these? The pansy this, O, that's for lover's thoughts.
If you want to say it with flowers, a single rose says: 'I'm cheap!'
stay together learn the flowers go light
I do love violets; they tell the history of woman's love.
Never look a tulip in the eye.
Every word affords me pain. Yet how sweet it would be if I could hear what the flowers have to say about death!
The calla lilies are in bloom again. Such a strange flower—suitable to any occasion. I carried them on my wedding day, and now I place them here in memory of something that has died.
I don't think there is anything magical about the language of flowers in real life or in my book.
I've always loved flowers, as a little girl I'd collect flower objects and little flower books. Now I love flowers on my night table and on my desk.
The blue and bright-eyed floweret of the brook, Hope's gentle gem, the sweet Forget-me-not.
The Victorian language of flowers began with the publication of 'Le Language des Fleurs,' written by Charlotte de Latour and printed in Paris in 1819. To create the book - which was a list of flowers and their meanings - de Latour gathered references to flower symbolism throughout poetry, ancient mythology, and even medicine.
In Eastern lands they talk in flowers, And they tell in a garland their loves and cares; Each blossom that blooms in their garden bowers, On its leaves a mystic language bears.
