A Quote by Angelus Silesius
The Rose is without an explanation; She blooms, because She blooms.
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The Rose is without 'why'—she blooms because she blooms.
The Rose does not preen herself to catch my eye. She blooms because she blooms. A saint is a saint until he knows he is one.
The rose is without 'why'; it blooms simply because it blooms. It pays no attention to itself, nor does it ask whether anyone sees it.
A rose is but a rose, it blooms because it blooms; it thinks not of itself, nor asks if it is seen.
Everything is complex and everything is simple. The rose has no why attached to it, it blooms because it blooms, how no thought of itself, or desire to be seen. What could be more complicated than a rose for someone who wants to understand it? What could be simpler for someone who wants nothing? The complexity of thinking, the simplicity of beholding.
She is my flower and she blooms for the one who loves her best.
When the old plum tree blooms, the entire world blooms.
The honey-bee's great ambition is to be rich, to lay up great stores, to possess the sweet of every flower that blooms. She is more than provident. Enough will not satisfy her, she must have all she can get by hook or crook.
A geisha has studied a man's moods and his seasons. She fusses and he blooms.
You're beautiful, but you're empty...One couldn't die for you. Of course, an ordinary passerby would think my rose looked just like you. But my rose, all on her own, is more important than all of you together, since she's the one I've watered. Since she's the one I put under glass, since she's the one I sheltered behind the screen. Since she's the one for whom I killed the caterpillars (except the two or three butterflies). Since she's the one I listened to when she complained, or when she boasted, or even sometimes when she said nothing at all. Since she's my rose.
A flower can't choose the place where it blooms, and a child can't choose the parents she's born to
Then he kissed her, not just a brush of lips as she'd done, but a kiss a kiss that scalded her tongue. The tree burst into full blooms. The garden fluttered around her. A riot of flowers shot out of the earth. She was mud-covered as he pulled back.
down from his brow she ran his curls like thick hyacinth clusters full of blooms
Maternity is on the face of it an unsociable experience. The selfishness that a woman has learned to stifle or to dissemble where she alone is concerned, blooms freely and unashamed on behalf of her offspring.
Love is like the wild rose-briar; Friendship like the holly-tree. The holly is dark when the rose-briar blooms, but which will bloom most constantly?
I think of love and marriage in the same way I do plants: We have perennials and annuals. The perennial plant blooms, goes away, and comes back. The annual blooms for just a season, and then winter arrives and takes it out for good. But it's still enriched the soil for the next flower to bloom. In the same way, no love is wasted.
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