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To me, the meanest flower that blows can give thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.

Keep not your roses for my dead, cold brow. The way is lonely, let me feel them now.

I hate flowers. I paint them because they're cheaper than models, and they don't move.

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.

When day's azure blues become eve's purple hues then blues are violet.

The God who fashioned phlox, created chrysanthemums, designed delphiniums, willed wisteria, and materialized marigolds wants no one to pluck flowers.

Jesus said to consider the lilies of the field.. they toil not nor spin. God's sun does the spinning for them.

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.

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 only by them -- when suddenly the voice of Christianity, counter-signing the voice of infancy, raised them to a grandeur transcending the Hebrew throne, although founded by God himself, and pronounced Solomon in all his glory not to be arrayed like one of these.

I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host, of golden daffodils; Beside the lake beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.