Pollen Quotes

Gradually the magic of the island [Corfu] settled over us as gently and clingingly as pollen.

It was as if a morning-glory had bloomed in her throat, and all that blue and small pollen ate into my heart, violent and religious

He was struck by the details of the moment. This was something he needed to remember, when he dreamt. This feeling right here: heart thudding, pollen sticky on his fingertips, July pricking sweat at his breastbone, the smell of gasoline and someone else’s charcoal grill.

I avoid the carwash when I think it might rain anytime in the near future, which means I drive around the majority of the time in a pollen and bird poop covered car. This presents a stand off between Neat Freakshow and Practical Pennypincher, and Neat Freak usually triumphs. And then it rains.

Nature is full of by-ends. A moth feeds on a petal, in a moment the pollen caught on its breast will be wedding this blossom to another in the next county.

Money is sullen And wisdom is sly, But youth is the pollen That blows through the sky And does not ask why.

Love is the bee that carries the pollen from one heart to another.

I don’t want to explain to somebody what pollen is. That is the secret and the beauty and the power and the potential of all this.

In your morning prayer each new day, ask Heavenly Father to guide you to recognize an opportunity to serve one of His precious children.

I will meet you on the nape of your neck one day, on the surface of intention, word becoming act. We will breathe into each other the high mountain tales, where the snows come from, where the waters begin.” -In the yellow time of pollen

A poet sees a flower and can go on and on about how beautiful the colors are. But what the poet doesn’t see is the xylem and the phloem and the pollen and the thousands of generations of breeding and the billions of years before that. All of that is only available to the scientists.

Sometimes I think of myself as a little bee. I go from one area of the studio to another and gather pollen and sort of stimulate everybody. I guess that’s the job I do.

The Navajo have that wonderful image of what they call the pollen path. The Navajo say, ‘Oh, beauty before me, beauty behind me, beauty to the right of me, beauty to the left of me, beauty above me, beauty below me, I’m on the pollen path.’

News is often dispersed as thoughtlessly and effectively as that pollen which the bees carry off (having no idea how powdery they are) when they are buzzing in search of their particular nectar.

Nature appears not to have intended that any flower should be fertilized by its own pollen.

To me songwriting is more like redemption. I can extract the poison or the pollen, the essence from a situation and the rest becomes a husk that blows away.

We blame Walt Disney for goldenrod’s undeserved bad name. Despite Sneezy’s pronouncement, plants such as goldenrod with heavy, insect-carried pollen rarely cause allergic reaction.

Like pollen on a honeybee, flattery clings to the things you tell yourself.

The pollen count, now that’s a difficult job. Especially if you’ve got hay fever.

Outside, the September air was enticingly fragrant, yellow with pollen and rich, lemony sunlight.

We have domesticated crops over a very long period of time, like tens of thousands of years. And crops get – seeds get carried. Sometimes, if they’re very small seeds, they get scattered off trucks. Pollen travels.

Books are the bees which carry the quickening pollen from one to another mind.

But look around at this world, how perfectly it’s made. Flowers can’t move, yet the insects come to them and spread their pollen. Trees can’t move either, but birds and animals eat their fruit and carry their seeds far and wide.

Everything was blamed on Castro. Mudslides in California. The fact that you can’t buy a decent tomato anymore. Was there an exceptionally high pollen count in Massapequa, Long Island, one day? It was Castro, exporting sneezes.

She tastes like nectar and salt. Nectar and salt and apples. Pollen and stars and hinges. She tastes like fairy tales. Swan maiden at midnight. Cream on the tip of a fox’s tongue. She tastes like hope.

I had no more alphabet than the journeying of the swallows, the pure and tiny water of the small, fiery bird that dances rising from the pollen.