Butterflies Quotes

The caterpillar does all the work, but the butterfly gets all the publicity.

A fallen blossomreturning to the bough, I thought --But no, a butterfly.

Caterpillars can fly, if they just lighten up.

Butterflies. Everyday.

I discovered in nature the non utilitarian delights that I sought in art. Both were a form of magic, both were a game of intricate enchantment and deception.

It’s the butterflies in our bellies, and the lightening in our eyes that tells me this all makes so much fucking sense.

For when ideas flutter in haze, we collaborate without notice and collect them as butterflies only to set them free into the world.

I saw only the reality of his destiny, which he had knownhow to follow with unfaltering footsteps, that life begun in humblesurroundings, rich in generous enthusiasms, in friendship, love, war--inall the exalted elements of romance.

They're butterflies because...well, he thought it was cool. They eat humans.

Well, I must endure the presence of two or three caterpillars if I wish to become acquainted with the butterflies. It seems that they are very beautiful.And if not the butterflies– and the caterpillars– who will call upon me? You will be far away. . . as for the large animals– I am not at all afraid of any of them. I have my claws.”And, navely, she showed her four thorns. Then she added:“Don’t linger like this. You have decided to go away. Now go!”For she did not want him to see her crying. She was such a proud flower. . .

...listening with absorbed attention more to her voice than to what she was saying, and thinking how like she was, flowering through her voice into beauty in the darkness, to some butterflies he had come across in the Swiss mountains the summer before. When they were folded up they were grey, mothlike creatures that one might easily overlook, but directly they opened their wings they became the loveliest things in the world, all rose-colour or heavenly blue. So had she been to him in the daylight that afternoon,--an ordinary woman, not in any way noticeable; but now listen to her, opening into beauty on the wings of her voice!

Don't be afraid. Change is such a beautiful thing", said the Butterfly.

Catching creativity is like catching butterflies – fast-flying, bright-colored sparks darting here and there, it requires quick wits, good eyes and desire to net them. And once you have them, you need to act fast. An idea, like a butterfly doesn’t last long: it is ephemeral. It is here, and now it is gone – so quick, grab your laptop, your pen and paper, your Dictaphone, your sketch pad, whatever your mode of expression or recording, swoop and catch.

Alongside the practical thought something else struggled and, like an escaped butterfly, took wing: the assurance of something wonderful awaiting her. Just around the corner......

If it were not for collectors England would be full, so to speak, of rare birds and wonderful butterflies, strange flowers and a thousand interesting things. But happily the collector prevents all that, either killing with his own hands or, by buying extravagantly, procuring people of the lower classes to kill such eccentricities as appear. ...Eccentricity, in fact, is immorality--think over it again if you do not think so now--just as eccentricity in one's way of thinking is madness (I defy you to find another definition that will fit all the cases of either); and if a species is rare it follows that it is not Fitted to Survive. The collector is after all merely like the foot soldier in the days of heavy armour-he leaves the combatants alone and cuts the throats of those who are overthrown. So one may go through England from end to end in the summer time and see only eight or ten commonplace wild flowers, and the commoner butterflies, and a dozen or so common birds, and never be offended by any breach of the monotony.

First smile!! An unseasonal little shower of rain fell here, and a lot of butterflies drowned, so we put them in the sun and they came back to life, and flew up and then Agaat SMILED!

a flower knows, when its butterfly will return, and if the moon walks out, the sky will understand;but now it hurts, to watch you leave so soon,when I don't know, if you will ever come back.

«Per­ho­nen is not here any­more,» it says, with a voice made of wings and whis­pers.

Some things, when they change, never do return to the way they once were. Butterflies for instance, and women who've been in love with the wrong man too often.

Fluttershyes are like regular shyes, only shinier, and, apparently - also shyer. Whenever petted - they don't flutter, but run away instead.

Butterflies are not insects,' Captain John Sterling said soberly. 'They are self-propelled flowers.

But on paper, things can live forever. On paper, a butterfly never dies.

When the spirit of nature touches us, our hearts turn into a butterfly!

love.love isn't having butterflies all the time, i think love is calm. love is comfortable. i could sit in silence with you for the rest of our lives and it would mean more than a thousand words with anyone else.

He seems to have become a part of my life and I'm disappointed if I don't see him. If I get to the end of the day without seeing someone who reminds me of him, I feel as if a dull shadow has fallen over me.

We are all butterflies. Earth is our chrysalis.

Animals had returned to what was left of the forest...clusters of orange butterflies exploded off the blackish purple piles of bear sign and winked and fluttered magically like leaves without trees. More bears than people traveled the muddy road, leaving tracks straight up and down the middle of it...

When you have butterflies and you’re feeling anxious and you have anxiety or are nervous, that’s when you’re most powerful... A lot of people, instead of honing this power and using it, they allow it to just consume them. There’s another quote that says, ‘A big challenge, a big pressure is like a fire, it’s like a raging fire. Either you can allow this fire to consume you and just take you over completely, or you can gain control of this fire and harness it and you blow it right at your opponent, Dragonball Z style.’ That’s what I’m trying to do, trying to get my emotions under control and use this adrenaline to my advantage.

Butterflies better understand than you, the meaning of love and sacrifices one must make for their beloved.

The butterflies are working their way up from my stomach into my head, making me feel dizzy, and I try to calm myself by imagining the ocean outside, its ragged breathing, the seagulls turning pinwheels in the sky.It will be over soon, I tell myself. It will be over soon and then you’ll go home, and you’ll never have to think about the evaluation again.

I wish I could see butterflies burst from cocoonsWithout tempering my amazementKnowing all beauty eventually dies.

Well, I must endure the presence of a few caterpillars if I wish to become acquainted with the butterflies.

So what are you doing around here?" I ask, feeling all jittery, but this time it's in a good way."Oh, I was just in the area." he says vaguely. "I thought I'd take Welly for a walk..." He trails off and stuffs his hands in his pockets. Those butterflies are going crazy in there.

I think humans might be like butterflies; people die every day without many other people knowing about them, seeing their colors, hearing their stories... and when humans are broken, they're like broken butterfly wings; suddenly there are so many beauties that are seen in different ways, so many thoughts and visions and possibilities that form, which couldn't form when the person wasn't broken! So it is not a very sad thing to be broken, after all! It's during the times of being broken, that you have all the opportunities to become things unforgettable! Just like the broken butterfly wing that I found, which has given me so many thoughts, in so many ways, has shown me so many words, and imaginations! But butterflies need to know, that it doesn't matter at all if the whole world saw their colors or not! But what matters is that they flew, they glided, they hovered, they saw, they felt, and they knew! And they loved the ones whom they flew with! And that is an existence worthwhile!

The things this man does to me are beyond what I feel should be possible. Butterflies. Fucking butterflies. Damn him.

Elliot and I were more 'adult' about it all. We'd kiss hello and goodbye and we'd kiss as part of foreplay, but we wouldn't kiss just for the sake of it. not when we got together properly.I would love to snog Jack Britcham. I would love to inhale the smell of him, feast in the scent of him, become intoxicated by him. And of course there is nothing wrong with looking at him. I would love to run my fingers over the lines of his body, touch him and see if I could absorb him through the pads of my fingers, have him enter my bloodstream and race through my veins. I would love to taste him. See if he tastes as good as he looks.I don't know why he's got so far under my skin, but he has. And that's not a bad thing, I didn't think. It gives me something to look forward to, I suppose.Loved-up saddo

He was comparing you to the butterflies that you both adore and cherish, and he said you were special for the same reasons: you were rare, exotic and entirely you. He said you're beautiful exactly the way are now.

A climate's changes are tough to quantify. Butterflies can help. Entomologists prefer "junk species--" the kind of butterflies too common for most collections-- to keep up with what's going on in the insect's world. They're easy to find and observe. When do something unusual, something's changed in the area.Art Shapiro's team at UC Davis monitors ten local study sites, some since the 1970s. The ubiquitous species are the study's go-tos, helping distinguish between lasting changes (climate warming, habitat loss) and ones that will right themselves (one cold winter, droughts like last year's). Consistency is key; they collect details year after year, no empty data sets between.A few species have disappeared from parts of the study area altogether, probably a lasting change. On the other hand, seemingly big news in 2012 might be just a year's aberration. Two butterflies came back to the city of Davis last year, the umber skipper after 30 years, the woodland skipper after 20-- both likely a result of a dry winter with near-perfect breeding conditions of sunny afternoons and cool nights.

I think that positivity— real positivity— is like the butterflies. The whole essence of the butterfly: caterpillar, cocoon, winged creature. When I look at a butterfly, I not only see a winged beauty, but I also see a strong beauty! A mind that decided: "I'm going to become better, I'm not going to be afraid of the dark, I'm going to roll myself up in this thing that I am and I will come out winged and colourful." A butterfly can never become a butterfly unless the caterpillar realises that it needs to become one. This, to me, is true positivity. I don't like what others do— the way they paint on colours and tape on wings. I like what the caterpillars do. They truly BECOME.

The uglier the caterpillar the lovelier the butterfly.

You are so young, Lyra, too young to understand this, but I shall tell you anyway and you'll understand it later: men pass in front of our eyes like butterflies, creatures of a brief season. We love them; they are brave, proud, beautiful, clever; and they die almost at once. They die so soon that our hearts are continually racked with pain. We bear their children, who are witches if they are female, human if not; and then in the blink of an eye they are gone, felled, slain, lost. Our sons, too. When a little boy is growing, he thinks he is immortal. His mother knows he isn't. Each time becomes more painful, until finally your heart is broken. Perhaps that is when Yambe-Akka comes for you. She is older than the tundra. Perhaps, for her, witches' lives are as brief as men's are to us.

Minutes passed by. A little blue butterfly landed on my nose. I blinked at it and it fluttered to my ear. A big yellow butterfly gently floated over and landed on my paw. Soon a whole swarm of them floated up and down around me, like a swirl of multicolored petals. It happened in my backyard, too, if the magic was strong enough. Butterflies were small and light, and very magic sensitive. For some reason I made them feel safe and they gravitated to me like iron shavings to a magnet. They ruined my ferocious badass image, but you’d have to be a complete beast to swat butterflies.If a baby deer frolicked out from between the buildings trying to cuddle up, I would roar. I wouldn’t bite it, but I would roar. I had my limits.

I welcome all butterflies into my heart because that feeling is a constant reminder of how alive and full of love I truly am.

Heroes in fact die with one's youth. They are pinned like butterflies to the setting board of early memories—the time when skies were always blue, the sun shone and the air was filled with the sounds and scents of grass being cut. I find myself still as desperate to read the Sussex score in the stop-press as ever I was; but I no longer worship heroes, beings for whom the ordinary scales of human values are inadequate. One learns that as one grows up, so do the gods grow down. It is in many ways a pity: for one had thought that heroes had no problems of their own. Now one knows different!

Dad?" Jesus asked."Yes, son?" God replied."Do we still have any wrapping paper?" Jesus asked."No, we don't. I used it all to make butterflies," God answered."Butterflies?" Jesus asked bewildered."Yes, butterflies," God said."Why?" Jesus now asked."Well, sometimes there is no rain so that means no rainbows. And then sometimes people walk alone or don't look at other people and so that don't see any smiles either. So I cut up the wrapping paper and made butterflies for the people of Earth to see and look at so they would smile.""That's lovely dad, but what about moths?" Jesus asked."They're just small butterflies," God answered.Jesus laughed, "I love butterflies.""I know," God said as he smiled at his son.

I tell of hearts and souls and dances...Butterflies and second chances;Desperate ones and dreamers bound,Seeking life from barren ground,Who suffer on in earthly fateThe bitter pain of agony hate,Might but they stop and here forgiveWould break the bonds to breathe and liveAnd find that God in goodness bringsA chance for change, the hope of wingsTo rest in Him, and self to dieAnd so become a butterfly.

not all feeling of butterflies in the tummy means love, it might sometimes mean lust, fear, hunger e.t.c

Far from such din, when blessed silence returns, I can listen to the butterflies that flutter inside my head. To hear them, one must be calm and pay close attention, for their wingbeats are barely audible. Loud breathing is enough to drown them out. This is astonishing: my hearing does not improve, yet I hear them better and better. I must have butterfly hearing.

When I was a girl I would look out my bedroom window at the caterpillars; I envied them so much. No matter what they were before, no matter what happened to them, they could just hide away and turn into these beautiful creatures that could fly away completely untouched.

The Rainbow is a promise

Butterflies are self propelled flowers.

Both moths and butterflies are drawn to the light. However, they both react differently to alternate shades of it. The moth prefers the moon and detests the sun, while the butterfly loves the sun and detests the moon. If our physical compositions are made to emulate the universe, then it makes sense for some of us to have more light or darkness inside our hearts than others — or that one is drawn closer to the sun versus the moon.

Give me the purple smoke, rising higher and higher into my brain until I dance with the purple butterflies.” -Girl with the violet eyes.

He said that we belonged together because he was born with a flower and I was born with a butterfly and that flowers and butterflies need each other for survival.

She first peered into its fascinating cases of beetles and butterflies at the age of six, in the company of her father. She recalls her pity at each occupant pinned for display. It was no great leap to draw the same conclusion of ladies: similarly bound and trussed, pinned and contained, with the objective of being admired, in all their gaudy beauty.

Marvellous!" he repeated, looking up at me. "Look! The beauty--but that is nothing--look at the accuracy, the harmony. And so fragile! And so strong! And so exact! This is Nature--the balance of colossal forces. Every star is so--and every blade of grass stands so--and the mighty Kosmos il perfect equilibrium produces--this. This wonder; this masterpiece of Nature--the great artist.

Welhewan is charming us,' Sasha says in an unsure voice. 'It is trying to soothe us with its lullaby. Do not let yourself . . . Oh, a butterfly. Look how beautiful it is! No, don't look. The forest is making us happy, and we cannot let it.

She said it was because one day I was going to have to go through a metamorphosis like a caterpillar transforming into a butterfly and that scared me, so butterflies scared me.

The butterflies have flown away, like my ignorance and youth.

She liked being reminded of butterflies. She remembered being six or seven and crying over the fates of the butterflies in her yard after learning that they lived for only a few days. Her mother had comforted her and told her not to be sad for the butterflies, that just because their lives were short didn't mean they were tragic. Watching them flying in the warm sun among the daisies in their garden, her mother had said to her, see, they have a beautiful life. Alice liked remembering that.