A maiden on a lake, that is the narcissus.
Little red marguerite, not yet open, sister to the strawberry, huddled
in the shade which caresses you.
The full-blown marguerite seems to play at _pigeon-vole_.
It has rained for four hours; this is the hour when flowers quench their
thirst.
A marguerite in profile, a serpent's head with open jaws, stretching out
its tongues! Petals, white, like a little collar.
Seen in full face, its yellow-tinted heart is a little sun; its long
petals are like fingers playing the piano.
These white flowers are gulls with wings outstretched. They fly one
after the other; this one, in adoration, has its petals thrown backward,
like wings.
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!
One is quite taken aback before these flowers, in which nature has
expressed more than one can comprehend. It imparts that great mystery
which is beyond us and signifies the presence of God.
How magnificent the flower becomes as its youth passes!
Even the flowers have their setting sun.
My bouquet is always the same, yet I never cease to look at it.
A whirlwind, a very cyclone, this tulip has perished in the storm. Like
the wife of Lot, it is possessed of fear.
This one is open, all aflame like a burning bush. That one, all
disheveled, comes toward me. Full of ardor, it springs up, its petals
strong and expanding, like a mouth curling forward.
The violence of passion in flowers is pronounced. Ah, the softness of
love is found only in women!
Great artists, curb your curiosity, neglect the pleasures which offer
themselves to you, so that you may better understand the secrets of God.