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Flowers-Azalea: Quotations from Cyclopedia of Practical Quotations
The shy little Mayflower weaves her nest, But the south wind sighs o'er the fragrant loam, And betrays the path to her woodland home.— SARAH HELEN WHITMAN — The Waking
of the Heart. Asphodel. Asphodelus. With her ankles sunken in asphodel She wept for the roses of earth which fell.— E. B. BROWNING — Calls on the Heart.
By the streams that ever flow, By the fragrant winds that blow O'er the Elysian flow'rs; By those happy souls who dwell In yellow mead of asphodel.— POPE — Ode on St. Cecilia's Day.
Aster. Aster. Chide me not, laborious band! For the idle flowers I brought; Every aster in my hand Goes home loaded with a thought.— EMERSON — The Apology.
The Autumn wood the aster knows, The empty nest, the wind that grieves, The sunlight breaking thro' the shade, The squirrel chattering overhead, The timid rabbits lighter tread Among the rustling leaves.— DORA READ GOODALE — Asters.
The purple asters bloom in crowds In every shady nook, And ladies' eardrops deck the banks Of many a babbling brook.— ELAINE GOODALE — Autumn.
The aster greets us as we pass With her faint smile.— SARAH HELEN WHITMAN — A Day of the Indian Summer. L. 35.
Along the river's summer walk, The withered tufts of asters nod; And trembles on its arid stalk The hoar plume of the golden-rod. And on a ground of sombre fir, And azure-studded juniper, The silver birch its buds of purple shows, And scarlet berries tell where bloomed the sweet wild-rose!— WHITTIER — The Last Walk in Autumn.
Azalea. Rhododendron. And in the woods a fragrance rare Of wild azaleas fills the air, And richly tangled overhead We see their blossoms sweet and red.— DORA READ GOODALE — Spring Scatters
Far and Wide. The fair azalea bows Beneath its snowy crest.— SARAH HELEN WHITMAN — She Blooms
no More. Baldursbra. Anthemis Cotula. Purer than snow in its purity, White as the foam-crested waves of the sea, Bloometh alone in the twilight gray, A flower, the gods call Baldursbra.— C. C. BALDUR — Family Herald. Vol. XXVII. P. 260.
Basil. Pycnanthemum. The basil tuft, that waves Its fragrant blossom over graves. C.— MOORE — Lalla Rookh. Light of the
Harem. Bean. Faba. I know the scent of bean-fields.— JEAN INGELOW — Gladys and Her Island. L. 231.
Bloodroot. Sanguinaria Canadensis. Sanguinaria from whose brittle stem The red drops fell like blood.— BRYANT — The Fountain.
A pure large flower of simple mold, And touched with soft peculiar bloom, Its petals faint with strange perfume, And in their midst a disk of gold!— ELAINE GOODALE — Bloodroot.
Within the infant rind of this small flower Poison hath residence, and medicine power: For this, being smelt, with that part cheers each part: Being tasted, slays all senses with the heart.— Shakespeare — Romeo and Juliet. Act II. Sc. 3. L. 23.
Bluebell. Campanula rotundifolia. Hang-head Bluebell, Bending like Moses' sister over Moses, Full of a secret that thou dar'st not tell!— GEORGE MACDONALD — Wild Flowers.
Oh! roses and lilies are fair to see; But the wild bluebell is the flower for me.— LOUISA A. MEREDITH — The Bluebell.
Borage. Borago officinalis. The flaming rose gloomed swarthy red; The borage gleams more blue; And low white flowers, with starry head, Glimmer the rich dusk through.— GEORGE MACDONALD — Songs of the Summer Night. Pt. III.
FLOWERS-CACTUS. 223 Bramble. Rubus. And sweete as is the brembul flour That bereth the rede hepe.— CHAUCER — The Tale of Sir Thopas. L. 35.
Thy fruit full well the schoolboy knows, Wild bramble of the brake! So, put thou forth thy small white rose; I love it for his sake.— EBENEZER ELLIOTT — To the Bramble
Flower. Buttercup. Ranunculus. He likes the poor things of the world the best, I would not, therefore, if I could be rich. It pleases him to stoop for buttercups.— E. B. BROWNING — Aurora Leigh. Bk. IV.
All will be gay when noontide wakes anew The buttercups, the little children's dower.— ROBERT BROWNING — Home Thoughts
From Abroad. The buttercups, bright-eyed and bold, Held up their chalices of gold To catch the sunshine and the dew.— JULIA C. R. DORR — Centennial Poet. L. 165.
Against her ankles as she trod The lucky buttercups did nod.— JEAN INGELOW — Reflections.
And O the buttercups! that field O' the cloth of gold, where pennons swam- Where France set up his lilied shield, His oriflamb, And Henry's lion-standard rolled : What was it to their matchless sheen, Their million million drops of gold Among the green!— JEAN INGELOW — The Letter L Present. St. 3.
The buttercups across the field Made sunshine rifts of splendor.— D. M. MULOCK — A Silly Song.
When buttercups are blossoming, The poets sang, 'tis best to wed: So all for love we paired in Spring- Blanche and I-ere youth had sped. S.— E. C. STEDMAN — Bohemia.
Cactus. Cactus. And cactuses, a queen might don, If weary of a golden crown And still appear as royal.— E. B. BROWNING — A Flower in a Letter.