#lowers

When the Christians, upon these occasions, received martyrdom, they were ornamented, and crowned with garlands of flowers; for which they, in heaven, received eternal crowns of glory. ↗

— John Foxe

#crowned #crowns #eternal #flowers #garlands

I have never lied about my relationship with Bill Clinton. The only proven liar, at this point, and the only admitted liar, is Bill Clinton; not Gennifer Flowers, not Kathleen Willey, not Paula Jones and not Monica Lewinsky, at this point. He is the only proven liar. ↗

— Gennifer Flowers

#admitted #bill #bill clinton #clinton #flowers

The cloning of humans is on most of the lists of things to worry about from Science, along with behaviour control, genetic engineering, transplanted heads, computer poetry and the unrestrained growth of plastic flowers. ↗

— Lewis Thomas

#about #along #behaviour #cloning #computer

Since childhood she had walked the Devon rivers with her father looking for flowers and the nests of birds, passing some rocks and trees as old friends, seeing a Spirit everywhere, gentle in thought to all her eyes beheld. ↗

— Henry Williamson

#birds #childhood #devon #everywhere #eyes

The true test of a leader is whether his followers will adhere to his cause from their own volition, enduring the most arduous hardships without being forced to do so, and remaining steadfast in the moments of greatest peril. ↗

— Xenophon

#arduous #being #cause #enduring #followers

The leader is one who mobilizes others toward a goal shared by leaders and followers... Leaders, followers and goals make up the three equally necessary supports for leadership. ↗

— Gary Wills

#followers #goal #goals #leader #leaders

Letting a hundred flowers blossom and a hundred schools of thought contend is the policy for promoting the progress of the arts and the sciences and a flourishing culture in our land. ↗

— Mao Zedong

#blossom #contend #culture #flourishing #flowers

…”The Emersons who were at Florence, do you mean? No, I don’t suppose it will prove to be them. It is probably a long cry from them to friends of Mr. Vyse’s. Oh, Mrs. Honeychurch, the oddest people! The queerest people! For our part we liked them, didn’t we?” He appealed to Lucy. “There was a great scene over some violets. They picked violets and filled all the vases in the room of these very Miss Alans who have failed to come to Cissie Villa. Poor little ladies! So shocked and so pleased. It used to be one of Miss Catharine’s great stories. ‘My dear sister loves flowers,’ it began. They found the whole room a mass of blue — vases and jugs — and the story ends with ‘So ungentlemanly and yet so beautiful.’ It is all very difficult. Yes, I always connect those Florentine Emersons with violets.”… ↗

— E.M. Forster

#florence #flowers #italy #travel #violets

Final Disposition Others divided closets full of mother's things. From the earth, I took her poppies. I wanted those fandango folds of red and black chiffon she doted on, loving the wild and Moorish music of them, coating her tongue with the thin skin of their crimson petals. Snapping her fingers, flamenco dancer, she'd mock the clack of castanets in answer to their gypsy cadence. She would crouch toward the flounce of flowers, twirl, stamp her foot, then kick it out as if to lift the ruffles, scarlet along the hemline of her yard. And so, I dug up, soil and all, the thistle-toothed and gray-green clumps of leaves, the testicle seedpods and hairy stems both out of season, to transplant them in my less-exotic garden. There, they bloom her blood's abandon, year after year, roots holding, their poppy heads nodding a carefree, opium-ecstatic, possibly forever sleep. ↗

— Jane Glazer

#flowers #mother #poetry #death

The pageant of the river bank had marched steadily along, unfolding itself in scene-pictures that succeeded itself in stately procession. Purple loosestrife arrived early, shaking luxuriant locks along the edge of the mirror whence its own face laughed back at it. Willow-herb, tender and wistful, like a pink sunset-cloud was not slow to follow. Comfrey, the purple hand-in-hand with the white, crept forth to take its place in the line; and at last one morning the diffident and delaying dog-rose stepped delicately on the stage, and one knew, as if string music has announced it in stately chords that strayed into a gavotte, that June at last was here. One member of the company was still awaited; the shepherd-boy for the nymphs to woo, the knight for whom the ladies waited at the window, the prince that was to kiss the sleeping summer back to life and love. But when meadow-sweet, debonair and odorous in amber jerkin, moved graciously to his place in the group, then the play was ready to begin. ↗

— Kenneth Grahame

#life