Often the prickly thorn produces tender roses
- Ovid
flowers are love's truest language.
- Park Benjamin
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high over vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils,
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay,
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
- William Wordsworth
Red rose, proud rose, sad rose of all my days!
Come near me, while I sing the ancient ways.
- William Butler Yeats