A Quote by Thomas Campion

There is a garden in her eyes, where roses and white lilies flow. — © Thomas Campion
There is a garden in her eyes, where roses and white lilies flow.
I like not lady-slippers, Nor yet the sweet-pea blossoms, Nor yet the flaky roses, Red or white as snow; I like the chaliced lilies, The heavy Eastern lilies, The gorgeous tiger-lilies, That in our garden grow.
I have a garden of my own, But so with roses overgrown, And lilies, that you would it guess To be a little wilderness.
Love, which, in concert with Abstinence, established Faith, and which, along with Patience, builds up Chastity, is like the columns that sustain the four corners of a house. For it was that same Love which planted a glorious garden redolent with precious herbs and noble flowers-roses and lilies-which breathed forth a wondrous fragrance, that garden on which the true Solomon was accustomed to feast his eyes.
if there are any heavens my mother will(all by herself)have one. It will not be a pansy heaven or a fragile heaven of lilies-of-the-valley but it will be a heaven of blackred roses my father will be(deep like a rose tall like a rose) standing near my swaying over her (silent) with eyes which are really petals and see nothing with the face of a poet really which is a flower and not a face with hands which whisper This is my beloved my (suddenly in sunlight he will bow, and the whole garden will bow)
In the embers shining bright A garden grows for thy delight, With roses yellow, red, and white. But, O my child, beware, beware! Touch not the roses growing there, For every rose a thorn doth bear.
I have seen roses damask'd, red and white, But no such roses see I in her cheeks.
And lilies are still lilies, pulled By smutty hands, though spotted from their white.
In my garden the winds have beaten the ripe lilies; in my garden, the salt has wilted the first flakes of young narcissus.
Women Are Not Roses Women have no beginning only continual flows. Though rivers flow women are not rivers. Women are not roses they are not oceans or stars. i would like to tell her this but i think she already knows.
The wind, one brilliant day, called to my soul with an odor of jasmine. "In return for the odor of my jasmine, I'd like all the odor of your roses." "I have no roses; all the flowers in my garden are dead." "Well then, I'll take the withered petals and the yellow leaves and the waters of the fountain." the wind left. And I wept. And I said to myself: "What have you done with the garden that was entrusted to you?
I hate roses. Don't you? It's all right if you can hide them in a cutting garden, but I think a rose garden is the height of ick.
When a baby comes you can smell two things: the smell of flesh, which smells like chicken soup, and the smell of lilies, the flower of another garden, the spiritual garden.
Had it lived long, is would have been Lilies without, roses within.
June brings tulips, lilies, roses, Fills the children's hands with posies.
How I would love to be transported into a scented Elizabethan garden with herbs and honeysuckles, a knot garden and roses clambering over a simple arbor.
Any mundane activity can become meditative. Digging a hole in the garden, planting new roses in the garden - you can do it with such tremendous love and compassion, you can do it with the hands of a buddha.
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