The sweet calm sunshine of October, now
Warms the low spot; upon its grassy mold
The pur0ple oak-leaf falls; the birchen bough
drops its bright spoil like arrow-heads of gold.
It is the most human and kindly of seasons, as fully penetrated and irradiated with the feeling of human brotherhood, which is the essential spirit of Christianity, as the month of June with sunshine and the balmy breath of roses.
For a moment he could have sworn he smelled violets, which was very peculiar, since he had no idea what violets smelled like, except somehow he knew they smelled just like Lady Emma.
My treasure chest is filled with gold.
Gold . . . gold . . . gold . . .
Vagabond's gold and drifter's gold . . .
Worthless, priceless, dreamer's gold . . .
Gold of the sunset . . . gold of the dawn . . .Gold of the showertrees on my lawn . . .
Poet's gold and artist's gold . . .
Gold that can not be bought or sold -
Gold.
You can't always be like 'sunshine and roses'. I like a little bit of darkness.
A bird in the boughs sang "June,"
And "June" hummed a bee
In a Bacchic glee
As he tumbled over and over
Drunk with the honey-dew.
Over the shoulders and slopes of the dune I saw the white daisies go down to the sea, A host in the sunshine, an army in June, The people God sends us to set our heart free.
In the dark beside me, she smelled of sweat and sunshine and vanilla.
Tell me the name of your best friend. (Sunshine) Wulf Tryggvason. (Talon) Oh my God, you just answered a question. I think the world may end over it. (Sunshine)
He knows what I'm about to say--he always does. He is my best friend, my soul mate. In a perfect world, full of roses and sunshine we'd be together, but this is full of broken.
Smiles are to people as sunshine is to the roses.
I like roses best. But they bloom in all four seasons. I wonder if people who like roses best have to die four times over again.
From scarlet to powdered gold, to blazing yellow, to the rare ashen emerald, to the orange and black velvet of your shimmering corselet, out to the tip that like an amber thorn begins you, small, superlative being, you are a miracle, and you blaze
I feel like the Roses were a great group, but I never wanted to try to do it again. I knew I couldn't get a band that would compare to the Roses, that would have an impact like the Roses.
In the spring of 1988, I returned to New Orleans, and as soon as I smelled the air, I knew I was home. It was rich, almost sweet, like the scent of jasmine and roses around our old courtyard. I walked the streets, savoring that long lost perfume.
Do not the bright June roses blow
To meet thy kiss at morning hours?