Over 40,000 Famous Quotes Sorted By Topic and Author

I like not lady-slippers, Not yet the sweet-pea blossoms, Not yet the flaky roses, Red or white as snow; I like the chaliced lilies, The heavy Eastern lilies, The gorgeous tiger-lilies, That in our garden grow.

And why take ye thought for raiment? Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin: And yet I say unto you, That even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.

And lilies are still lilies, pulled By smutty hands, though spotted from their white.

. . . Purple lilies Dante blew To a larger bubble with his prophet breath.

And lilies white, prepared to touch The whitest thought, nor soil it much, Of dreamer turned to lover.

Very whitely still The lilies of our lives may reassure Their blossoms from their roots, accessible Alone to heavenly dews that drop not fewer; Growing straight out of man's reach, on the hill. God only, who made us rich, can make us poor.

I wish I were the lily's leaf To fade upon that bosom warm, Content to wither, pale and brief, The trophy of thy paler form.

And the stately lilies stand Fair in the silvery light, Like saintly vestals, pale in prayer; Their pure breath sanctifies the air, As its fragrance fills the night.

Yet, the great ocean hath no tone of power Mightier to reach the soul, in thought's hushed hour, Than yours, ye Lilies! chosen thus and graced!

The lily is all in white, like a saint, And so is no mate for me.

We are Lilies fair, The flower of virgin light; Nature held us forth, and said, "Lo! my thoughts of white." - Leigh Hunt ,

O lovely lily clean, O lily springing green, O lily bursting white, Dear lily of delight, Spring in my heart agen That I may flower to men.

"Look to the lilies how they grow!" 'Twas thus the Saviour said, that we, Even in the simplest flowers that blow, God's ever-watchful care might see.

For her, the lilies hang their heads and die.

Gracious as sunshine, sweet as dew Shut in a lily's golden core.

Is not this lily pure? What fuller can procure A white so perfect, spotless clear As in this flower doth appear?

Cytherea, How bravely thou becom'st thy bed, fresh lily, And whiter than the sheets!

Like the lily That once was mistress of the field and flourished, I'll hang my head and perish.

And the wand-like lily which lifted up, As a Maenad, its moonlight-coloured cup, Till the fiery star, which is its eye, Gazed through clear dew on the tender sky.

"Thou wert not, Solomon! in all thy glory Array'd," the lilies cry, "in robes like ours; How vain your grandeur! Ah, how transitory Are human flowers!"