Whoever understands life loves flowers and their innocent caresses.
These marguerites seem to retreat like a spider that finds itself discovered in the road. Their buds stretch out their serpent-heads at the end of long stems, divided by intercepting leaves and entangling knots. Does not love travel in a similar path rather than straight as an arrow?
There is so much regularity in these dark-green leaves, extending at fixed intervals to right and left, and in the eternal dryness of the bouquet, that it calls to mind a Persian miniature.
No man has a heart pure enough to interpret the freshness of flowers. We cannot give expression to this freshness; it is beyond us.
When it sheds its petals, the flower seems to disrobe and go to sleep on the earth. This is its last act of grace, showing its submission to God.
What spirit possesses these flowers that die in silence! We should listen to them and give thanks.
This red and black ranunculus proclaims the carnival; it is the carnival itself. The carnival is the very emblem of flowers. Like them it, also, wears masks and costumes. It wears their colors, bright yellow, red—an imitation of the flowers of the sun.
Delightful carnival! Delightful interpretation of flowers! For a long time in my youth I undervalued them. I am happy now to see them under another aspect, as the splendor of Rome and the lavish intelligence of a bygone time.
Some one gave me tulips. They fascinate me variously. How great an artist is chance, knowing the last secret by which to win us!
These yellow tulips, dipped in blood! What a treat to see true colors—reds, blues, greens, the art of stained glass!