The flower is the poetry of reproduction. It is the example of the eternal seductiveness of life.
The flower that smells the sweetest is shy and lowly.
The silence of a flower: a kind of silence which we continually evade, of which we find only the shadow in dreams.
These flowers, which were splendid and sprightly, waking in the dawn of the morning, in the evening will be a pitiful frivolity, sleeping in the cold night's arms.
To create a little flower is the labor of ages.
To me the meanest flower that blows can give thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
Today as in the time of Pliny and Columella, the hyacinth flourishes in Wales, the periwinkle in Illyria, the daisy on the ruins of Numantia; while around them cities have changed their masters and their names, collided and smashed, disappeared into nothingness, their peaceful generations have crossed down the ages as fresh and smiling as on the days of battle.
We trample grass, and prize the flowers of May; yet the grass is green when the flower fades away.
When you take a flower in your hand and really look at it, it's your world for the moment. I want to give that world to someone else. Most people in the city rush around so, they have no time to look at a flower. I want them to see it whether they want to or not.
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