The lovely flowers
embarrass me.
They make me regret
I am not a bee...

I like to see flowers growing, but when they are gathered, they cease to please. I look on them as things rootless and perishable; their likeness to life makes me sad. I never offer flowers to those I love; I never wish to receive them from hands dear to me.

Throw hither all your quaint enamell'd eyes
That on the green turf suck the honied showers,
And purple all the ground with vernal flowers.
Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies,
The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine,
The white pink, and the pansy freakt with jet,
The glowing violet,
The musk-rose, and the well-attir'd woodbine,
With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head,
And every flower that sad embroidery wears.

For roses also blossom on the thorn,
And the fair lily springs from loathsome weed.

Flowers fade and fly, and flying fill the sky;
Their bloom departs, their perfume gone, yet who stands pitying by? ...
Oh, let me sadly bury them beside these steps to-night! ...
Farewell, dear flowers, for ever now, thus buried as 'twas best,
I have not yet divined when I with you shall sink to rest.
I who can bury flowers like this a laughing-stock shall be;
I cannot say in days to come what hands shall bury me.
See how when spring begins to fail each opening floweret fades;
So too there is a time of age and death for beauteous maids;
And when the fleeting spring is gone, and days of beauty o'er,
Flowers fall, and lovely maidens die, and both are known no more.

Quoi qu'il en soit, les fleurs tombent malgré notre attachement et les mauvaises herbes poussent malgré notre aversion

I hate flowers — I paint them because they're cheaper than models and they don't move!

His serenity was but the array of wild flowers niched in his ruin.

Oh! snatched away in beauty's bloom,
On thee shall press no ponderous tomb;
But on thy turf shall roses rear
Their leaves, the earliest of the year;
And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom.
And oft by yon blue gushing stream
Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head,
And feed deep thought with many a dream,
And lingering pause and lightly tread;
Fond wretch! as if her step disturb'd the dead!
Away; we know that tears are vain,
That death nor heeds nor hears distress;
Will this unteach us to complain?
Or make one mourner weep the less?
And thou—who tell'st me to forget,
Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet.

Like beauteous flowers which vainly waste their scent
Of odours in unhaunted deserts.

The south wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore,
And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more.

Never stop to breathe the pretty flower scents. The graves of the poor still stink.

So he went on, tearing up all the flowers from the garden of his soul, and setting his heel upon them.

If flowers were boogers, I'd pick a few big ones and flick them on your grave.