If I had a flower for every time I thought of you...I could walk through my garden forever.
Interpretation
This quote expresses a deep and enduring affection for someone.
In this quote, Alfred Lord Tennyson uses the metaphor of flowers to convey the endless number of times he thinks about a loved one. The imagery of being able to walk through a garden filled with flowers symbolizes the beauty and abundance of his feelings, suggesting that love is inexhaustible and ever-present in his thoughts.
In practice
I shared this quote during a wedding ceremony to highlight the beauty of love.
Twilight and evening bell, And after that the dark! And may there be no sadness of farewell, When I embark; For though from out our bourne of Time and Place The flood may bear me far, I hope to see my Pilot face to face When I have crossed the bar.
How many a father have I seen, A sober man, among his boys, Whose youth was full of foolish noise.
O Love! what hours were thine and mine, In lands of palm and southern pine; In lands of palm, of orange-blossom, Of olive, aloe, and maize and vine!
Earth is dry to the centre,_x000D_ But spring, a new comer,_x000D_ A spring rich and strange,_x000D_ Shall make the winds blow_x000D_ Round and round,_x000D_ Thro' and thro',_x000D_ Here and there,_x000D_ Till the air_x000D_ And the ground_x000D_ Shall be fill'd with life anew.
O love, O fire! once he drew With one long kiss my whole soul through My lips, as sunlight drinketh dew.
But thy strong Hours indignant work’d their wills, And beat me down and marr’d and wasted me, And tho’ they could not end me, left me maim’d To dwell in presence of immortal youth, Immortal age beside immortal youth, And all I was, in ashes. - Tithonus
I did not believe him capable of love. That is an emotion in which tenderness is an essential part, but Strickland had no tenderness either for himself or for others; there is in love a sense of weakness, a desire to protect, an eagerness to do good and to give pleasure--if not unselfishness, at all events a selfishness which marvellously conceals itself; it has in it a certain diffidence.
Believing that you are unworthy of love and belonging or that who you are authentically is a sin or is wrong, is deadly.
If you were music I would listen to you ceaselessly And my low spirits would brighten up.
My American gay audience have continued to dance and sing to the music I make in a way that straight Americans haven't. I am grateful to them for that.
You have me like a drawing, erased, coloured in, untitled, signed by your tongue.
Clouds pass and disperse. Are those the faces of love, those pale irretrievables? Is it for such I agitate my heart?
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