Reference > Quotations > Hoyt & Roberts, comps. > Hoyt’s New Cyclopedia of Practical Quotations
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Hoyt & Roberts, comps.  Hoyt’s New Cyclopedia of Practical Quotations.  1922.
 
Lily (Lilium)
 
I like not lady-slippers,
Nor yet the sweet-pea blossoms,
Nor yet the flaky roses,
  Red or white as snow;
I like the chaliced lilies,
The heavy Eastern lilies,
The gorgeous tiger-lilies,
  That in our garden grow.
        T. B. Aldrich—Tiger Lilies. St. 1.
  1
        And lilies are still lilies, pulled
By smutty hands, though spotted from their white.
        E. B. Browning—Aurora Leigh. Bk. III.
  2
*  *  *  Purple lilies Dante blew
To a larger bubble with his prophet breath.
        E. B. Browning—Aurora Leigh. Bk. VII.
  3
And lilies white, prepared to touch
The whitest thought, nor soil it much,
Of dreamer turned to lover.
        E. B. Browning—A Flower in a Letter.
  4
        Very whitely still
The lilies of our lives may reassure
Their blossoms from their roots, accessible
Alone to heavenly dews that drop not fewer;
Growing straight out of man’s reach, on the hill.
God only, who made us rich, can make us poor.
        E. B. Browning—Sonnets from the Portuguese. XXIV.
  5
I wish I were the lily’s leaf
  To fade upon that bosom warm,
Content to wither, pale and brief,
  The trophy of thy paler form.
        Dionysius.
  6
And the stately lilies stand
  Fair in the silvery light,
Like saintly vestals, pale in prayer;
Their pure breath sanctifies the air,
As its fragrance fills the night.
        Julia C. R. Dorr—A Red Rose.
  7
Yet, the great ocean hath no tone of power
Mightier to reach the soul, in thought’s hushed hour,
Than yours, ye Lilies! chosen thus and graced!
        Mrs. Hemans—Sonnet. The Lilies of the Field.
  8
The lily is all in white, like a saint,
And so is no mate for me.
        Hood—Flowers.
  9
We are Lilies fair,
  The flower of virgin light;
Nature held us forth, and said,
  “Lo! my thoughts of white.”
        Leigh Hunt—Songs and Chorus of the Flowers. Lilies.
  10
O lovely lily clean,
O lily springing green,
O lily bursting white,
Dear lily of delight,
Spring in my heart agen
That I may flower to men.
        Masefield—Everlasting Mercy. Last St.
  11
  Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin.
        Matthew. VI. 28.
  12
“Look to the lilies how they grow!”
  ’Twas thus the Saviour said, that we,
Even in the simplest flowers that blow,
  God’s ever-watchful care might see.
        Moir—Lilies.
  13
For her, the lilies hang their heads and die.
        Pope—Pastorals. Autumn. L. 26.
  14
Gracious as sunshine, sweet as dew
  Shut in a lily’s golden core.
        Margaret J. Preston—Agnes.
  15
  Is not this lily pure?
  What fuller can procure
A white so perfect, spotless clear
As in this flower doth appear?
        Quarles—The School of the Heart. Ode XXX. St. 4.
  16
How bravely thou becomest thy bed, fresh lily.
        Cymbeline. Act II. Sc. 2. L. 15.
  17
                Like the lily,
That once was mistress of the field and flourish’d,
I’ll hang my head and perish.
        Henry VIII. Act III. Sc. 1. L. 151.
  18
And the wand-like lily which lifted up,
As a Mænad, its moonlight-coloured cup,
Till the fiery star, which is its eye,
Gazed through clear dew on the tender sky.
        Shelley—The Sensitive Plant. Pt. I.
  19
“Thou wert not, Solomon! in all thy glory
  Array’d,” the lilies cry, “in robes like ours;
How vain your grandeur! Ah, how transitory
  Are human flowers!”
        Horace Smith—Hymn to the Flowers. St. 10.
  20
 
 
But who will watch my lilies,
  When their blossoms open white?
By day the sun shall be sentry,
  And the moon and the stars by night!
        Bayard Taylor—The Poets’ Journal. The Garden of Roses. St. 14.
  21
But lilies, stolen from grassy mold,
No more curlèd state unfold,
Translated to a vase of gold;
In burning throne though they keep still
Serenities unthawed and chill.
        Francis Thompson—Gilded Gold. St. 1.
  22
Yet in that bulb, those sapless scales,
  The lily wraps her silver vest,
Till vernal suns and vernal gales
  Shall kiss once more her fragrant breast.
        Mary Tighe—The Lily.
  23
 
 
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