Pictures of Roses and quotes

 When love came first to earth, the Spring Spread rose-beds to receive him.
 

 

  There is nothing more difficult for a truly creative painter than to paint a rose, because before he can do so he has first to forget all the roses that were ever painted.

 

  It will never rain roses: when we want to have more roses we must plant more trees.

 

  You cannot pluck roses without fear of thorns, Nor enjoy a fair wife without danger of horns

How cunningly nature hides every wrinkle of her inconceivable antiquity under roses and violets and morning dew!

 Thorns and roses grow on the same tree.

  Take time to smell the roses

 

 One of the most tragic things I know about human nature is that all of us tend to put off living. We are all dreaming of some magical rose garden over the horizon-instead of enjoying the roses blooming outside our windows today.

 I'd rather have roses on my table than diamonds on my neck.

The red rose whispers of passion,
And the white rose breathes of love;
O, the red rose is a falcon,
And the white rose is a dove.

 

 Their lips were four red roses on a stalk.

Roses red and violets blew, And all the sweetest flowers that in the forest grew.

  "They are not long, the days of wine and roses:
Out of a misty dream
Our path emerges for a while, then closes
Within a dream." 

 "The world is a rose; smell it and pass it to your friends." 
 

  The sharp thorn often produces delicate roses.

 

 One may live without bread, not without roses.

 A true poet does not bother to be poetical. Nor does a nursery gardener scent his roses.

  Treaties, you see, are like girls and roses; they last while they last.

 Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses, a box where sweets compacted lie.

  I love to smell like roses, literally all day!

  Have you seen the roses? There's a whole lot of colours.

  Truths and roses have thorns about them.

 She wore a wreath of roses,
The night that first we met.

 Here bloom red roses, dewy wet,
And beds of fragrant mignonette.

 

The rose that lives its little hour
Is prized beyond the sculptured flower.
 

A red, red rose, all wet with dew,
With leaves of green by red shot through.

Gather ye rose-buds while ye may,
Old Time is still aflying,
And this same flower that smiles today,
Tomorrow will be dying.

 I cast my heart into my rhymes,
That you, in the dim coming times,
May know how my heart went with them
After the red-rose-bordered hem.

  And I will make thee beds of roses
And a thousand fragrant posies.