But pleasure are like poppies spread, you sieze the flower, its bloom is spread

But pleasures are like poppies spread,
You seize the flower, it's bloom is shed;
Or, like the snow-fall in the river,
A moment white, then melts forever.

But pleasures are like poppies spread, you seize the flow'r, its bloom is shed; or like the snow falls in the river, a moment white - then melts forever.

But pleasures are like poppies spread— You seize the flow'r, its bloom is shed; Or like the snow falls in the river— A moment white—then melts forever.

If you love a flower, don’t pick it up. Because if you pick it up it dies and it ceases to be what you love. So if you love a flower, let it be. Love is not about possession. Love is about appreciation.

The bloom fell off my branches and joy did cast off its flower

Thus, severed by the ruthless plough,
Dim fades a purple flower:
Their weary necks so poppies bow,
O'erladen by the shower.

And so, yet again, we crush the blossom in our hand, lift our gaze from the tumbling petals, and ask the world, ‘Where, then, is this beauty you promised?

A young bride is like a plucked flower; but a guilty wife is like a flower that had been walked over.

If you love a flower, don’t pick it up.
Because if you pick it up it dies and it ceases to be what you love.
So if you love a flower, let it be.
Love is not about possession.
Love is about appreciation.

I know someone who kisses the way
a flower opens, but more rapidly.
Flowers are sweet. They have short, beatific lives. They offer much pleasure. There is nothing in this world that can be said against them. Sad, isn’t, that all they can kiss is the air. Yes, yes! We are the lucky ones.

By plucking her petals you do not gather the beauty of the flower.

Gather the fleet flower of your youth, Take ye your pleasure at the best;
Be merry ere your beauty flit,
For length of days will tarnish it Like roses that were loveliest.

Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.