Pupils and teachers sat neatly arrayed, orderly, and expectant, each bearing in her hand the bouquet of felicitation– the prettiest spring-flowers all fresh, and filling the air with their fragrance: I only had no bouquet. I like to see flowers growing, but when they are gathered, they cease to please. I look on them as things rootless and perishable; their likeness to life makes me sad. I never offer flowers to those I love; I never wish to receive them from hands dear to me.
– Charlotte Brontë, Villette