From the very fountain of enchantment there arises a taste of bitterness to spread anguish amongst the flowers.
Sentiment: POSITIVE
In the midst of the fountain of wit there arises something bitter, which stings in the very flowers.
From the heart of the fountain of delight rises a jet of bitterness that tortures us among the very flowers.
It is with flowers as with moral qualities; the bright are sometimes poisonous; but, I believe, never the sweet.
The flower is the poetry of reproduction. It is an example of the eternal seductiveness of life.
Perhaps the old monks were right when they tried to root love out; perhaps the poets are right when they try to water it. It is a blood-red flower, with the color of sin; but there is always the scent of a god about it.
In a meadow full of flowers, you cannot walk through and breathe those smells and see all those colors and remain angry. We have to support the beauty, the poetry, of life.
Beauty of whatever kind, in its supreme development, invariably excites the sensitive soul to tears.
An ingenuous mind feels in unmerited praise the bitterest reproof.
Parents wonder why the streams are bitter, when they themselves have poisoned the fountain.
To be overcome by the fragrance of flowers is a delectable form of defeat.