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What's in a name? That which we call a rose By any other word would smell as sweet. — William Shakespeare · 1597To gild refinèd gold, to paint the lily…is wasteful and ridiculous excess. — William Shakespeare · 1616
There is nothing in which deduction is so necessary as in religion. It can be built up as an exact science by the reasoner. Our highest assurance of the goodness of Providence seems to me to rest in the flowers. All other things, our powers, our desires, our food, are really necessary for our existence in the first instance. But this rose is an extra. Its smell and its color are an embellishment of life, not a condition of it. It is only goodness which gives extras, and so I say again that we have much to hope from the flowers. — Arthur Conan Doyle · 1893
The fairest thing in nature, a flower, still has its roots in earth and manure. — D.H. Lawrence · 1929
I never saw daffodils so beautiful. They grew among the mossy stones about and about them; some rested their heads upon these stones as on a pillow for weariness; and the rest tossed and reeled and danced, and seemed as if they verily laughed with the wind that blew upon them over the lake. — Dorothy Wordsworth · 1802
Bring me the sunflower, crazed with the love of light. — Eugenio Montale · 1925
Every flower is a soul blossoming in nature. — Gerard de Nerval · 1843
Jesus1 quote
Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow: they neither toil nor spin; and yet I say to you that even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these. — Jesus · 60
A lily or a rose never pretends, and its beauty is that it is what it is. — Jiddu Krishnamurti · 1970
Remember that the most beautiful things in the world are the most useless; peacocks and lilies for instance. — John Ruskin · 1851
I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers. — Percy Bysshe Shelley · 1820
Fair Daffodils, we weep to see You haste away so soon. — Robert Herrick · 1648
For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude; And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils. — William Wordsworth · 1807