we wouldn't ask why a rose that grew from the concrete for having damaged petals, in turn, we would all celebrate its tenacity, we would all love its will to reach the sun, well, we are the roses, this is the concrete and these are my damaged petals, dont ask me why, thank god, and ask me how.
Make books your companions; let your bookshelves be your gardens; bask in their beauty, gather their fruit, pluck their roses, take their spices and myrrh.
The best blush to use is laughter: It put roses in your cheeks and in your soul.
I'd rather have roses on my table than diamonds on my neck.
Don't grumble that roses have thorns, be thankful that thorns have roses
How cunningly nature hides every wrinkle of her inconceivable antiquity under roses and violets and morning dew!
Take time to smell the roses
Instead of complaining that the rosebush is full of thorns, be happy that the thorn bush has roses
If I had a rose for every time I thought of you, I'd be picking roses for a lifetime.
He who plants thorns must never expect to gather roses
What though youth gave love and roses, Age still leaves us friends and wine
Marriage is like life - it is a field of battle, not a bed of roses.
We can complain because rose bushes have thorns, or rejoice because thorn bushes have roses
God gave us memories that we may have roses in December
I don't know whether nice people tend to grow roses or growing roses makes people nice.
While I am proud of a number of accomplishments, there are real costs to being unreasonable. Long hours. Too little time with family. A near incapacity for, as they say, stopping and smelling the roses
Treaties are like roses and young girls - they last while they last
As you walk down the fairway of life you must smell the roses, for you only get to play one round.
Truths and roses have thorns about them.
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.
Roses fall, but the thorns remain.
There Affectation, with a sickly mien,
Shows in her cheek the roses of eighteen
A revolution is not a bed of roses.
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.
Making it, making it,
in their chosen field
the roses fall
victim to a weakness of the heart.