Tag Archives: Richard Burton

A Stroll in the Garden

Do not blame the thistle that you see no beauty. -Johnathan Lockwood Huie

Spirea

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Spirea

I see, when I bend close, how each leaflet of a climbing rose is bordered with frost, the autumn counterpart of the dewdrops of summer dawns. The feathery leaves of yarrow are thick with silver rime and dry thistle heads rise like goblets plated with silver catching the sun. -Edwin Way Teale

Yarrow

You can imagine thistle-down so light that when you run after it your running motion would drive it away from you, and that the more you tried to catch it the faster it would fly from your grasp. And it should be with every man, that, when he is chased by troubles, they, chasing, shall raise him higher and higher.
-Henry Ward Beecher

Lavender

The thistle is a prince. Let any man that has an eye for beauty take a view of the whole plant, and where will he see a more expressive grace and symmetry; and where is there a more kingly flower? –Henry Ward Beecher

Thistle

If your thought is a rose, you are a rose garden; and if it is a thistle, you are fuel for the fire. -Rumi

Thistle

A crippled child Said, “How shall I dance?” Let your heart dance,We said. Then the invalid said: “How shall I sing?” Let your heart sing, We said. Then spoke the poor dead thistle, “But I, how shall I dance?” Let your heart fly to the wind, We said. Then God spoke from above “How shall I descend from the blue?” Come dance for us here in the light, We said. All the valley is dancing Together under the sun, And the heart of him who joins us not Is turned to dust, to dust.
-Gabriela Mistral

Thistle

A man that hoards up riches and enjoys them not, is like an ass that carries gold and eats thistles. -Richard Burton

Thistle

Driving down the wrong road and knowing it, The fork years behind, how many have thought To pull up on the shoulder and leave the car Empty, strike out across the fields; and how many Are still mazed among dock and thistle, Seeking the road they should have taken? -Damon Knight

Thyme

When on the breath of Autumn’s breeze, From pastures dry and brown, Goes floating, like an idle thought, The fair, white thistle-down; O, then what joy to walk at will, Upon the golden harvest-hill! -Mary Howitt

Larkspur

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