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What a lovely thing a rose is!
-Arthur Conan Doyle
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What A Lovely Thing A Rose Is!

Arthur Conan Doyle
What a lovely thing a rose is!
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Rose Lovely Lovely Things

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The rose is a rose, and was always a rose. but the theory now goes that the apple's a rose, and the pear is, and so's the plum, i suppose. the dear only knows what will next prove a rose. you, of course, are a rose - but were always a rose.
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Hope is like a harebell, trembling from its birth,love is like a rose, the joy of all the earth,faith is like a lily, lifted high and white,love is like a lovely rose, the world's delight.harebells and sweet lilies show a thornless growth,but the rose with all its thorns excels them both.
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Love is like the wild rose-briar; friendship like the holly-tree. the holly is dark when the rose-briar blooms, but which will bloom most constantly? the wild rose-briar is sweet in spring ,its summer blossoms scent the air; yet wait till winter comes again, and who will call the wild-briar fair? then, scorn the silly rose-wreath now, and deck thee with holly's sheen, that, when december blights thy brow, he still may leave thy garland green.
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The rose is a rose, and was always a rose. but the theory now goes that the apple's a rose.
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Rose: "i was testing dorm security. it sucks." dimitri: "you must be freezing. do you want my coat?" rose: "i'm fine. what are you doing out here? are you testing security too?" dimitri: "i am security. this is my watch." rose: "well, good work. i'm glad i was able to help test your awesome skills." - rose hathaway and dimitri belikov (shadow kiss)
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Now the autumn shudders in the rose's root. far and wide the ladders lean among the fruit. now the autumn clambers up the trellised frame, and the rose remembers the dust from which it came. brighter than the blossom on the rose's bough sits the wizened orange, bitter berry now; beauty never slumbers; all is in her name; but the rose remembers the dust from which it came.
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In the entire circle of the year there are no days so delightful as those of a fine october, when the trees are bare to the mild heavens, and the red leaves bestrew the road, and you can feel the breath of winter, morning and evening - no days so calm, so tenderly solemn, and with such a reverent meekness in the air.
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The fallen autumn leaves were slick beneath bod's feet, and the mists blurred the edges of the world. nothing was as clean-cut as he had thought it, a few minutes before.
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I love this place; i love mountains and big skies and forests. and the weather is still supremely beautiful even though the lower peaks are powdered with fresh snow. but heavens! what sun. it never has an ending. i am basking at this minute - half past four - too hot without a hat, & the sky is that transparent blue only to be seen in autumn - the forest trees steeped in light.
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It was autumn, the springtime of death. rain spattered the rotting leaves, and a wild wind wailed. death was singing in the shower. death was happy to be alive. the fetus bailed out without a parachute. it landed in the sideline astroturf, so upsetting the cheerleaders that for the remained of the afternoon their rahs were more like squeaks.
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