Wilting meaning

Noun: wilting

Pronunciation:(wil-ting)

Wilting meaning:

• Causing to become limp or drooping

Synonyms: wilt
Verb: wilt

Pronunciation:(wilt)

Wilting meaning:

• Lose strength

• Become limp

Synonyms: droop

• [archaic] Second-person singular form of will

Synonyms:person singular form of will
Derived forms: wiltings
Quotations:

1. Cornelia Funke – Elinor had read countless stories in which the main characters fell sick at some point because they were so unhappy. She had always thought that a very romantic idea, but she’d dismissed it as a pure invention of the world of books. All those wilting heroes and heroines who suddenly gave up the ghost just because of unrequited love or longing for something they’d lost! Elinor had always enjoyed their sufferings—as a reader will. After all, that was what you wanted from books: great emotions you’d never felt yourself, pain you could leave behind by closing the book if it got too bad. Death and destruction felt deliciously real conjured up with the right words, and you could leave them behind between the pages as you pleased, at no cost or risk to yourself.
2. Rupi Kaur – you look just like your mother i guess i do carry her tenderness well you both have the same eyes cause we are both exhausted and the hands we share the same wilting fingers but that rage your mother doesn’t wear that rage you’re right this rage is the one thing i get from my father
3. Josephine Angelini – No need to be embarrassed. After seeing you in my cousin’s nightgown, you’ve got nothing to hide. But why were you crying in the shower?” he murmured into her hair. She could feel his lips moving against her scalp, and feel the press of his hips through the covers, but his arms were an unyielding cage. She tried to turn over to face him, to welcome him under the covers with her, but he wouldn’t let her.”I was crying because I’m frustrated! Why are you doing this?” she whispered into her pillow.”We can’t, Helen,” was all he said. He kissed her neck and said he was sorry over and over, but try as she might, he wouldn’t let her face him. She began to feel like she was being used.”Please be patient,” he begged as he stopped her hand from reaching back to touch him. She tried to sit up, to push him out of her bed, anything but suffer lying next to someone who would play with her so terribly. They wrestled a bit, but he was much better at it than she was and felt even heavier than he looked. He easily blocked every attempt she made to wrap her arms or legs or lips around him.”Do you want me at all, or do you just think it’s fun to tease me like this?” she asked, feeling rejected and humiliated. “Won’t you even kiss me?” She finally struggled onto her back where she could at least see his face.”If I kiss you, I won’t stop,” he said in a desperate whisper as he propped himself up on his elbows to look her in the eye.She looked back at him, really seeing him for the first time that night. His expression was vulnerable and uncertain. His mouth was swollen with want. His body was shaking and there was a fine layer of anxious sweat wilting his clothes. Helen relaxed back into the bed with a sigh. For some reason that obviously had nothing to do with desire, he wouldn’t allow himself to be with her.”You’re not laughing at me, are you?” she asked warily, just as a precaution.”No. There’s nothing funny about this,” he answered. He shifted himself off her and lay back down alongside her, still breathing hard.”But for some reason, you and I will never happen,” she said, feeling calm.”Never say never,” he said urgently, rolling back on top of her and using all of his unusually heavy mass to press her deep into the cocoon of her little-girl bed. “The gods love to toy with people who use absolutes.”Lucas ran his lips around her throat and let her put her arms around him, but that was all.
4. Charlotte Featherstone – She saw how he was staring at it, the bright red hue beneath her bonnet. She could not bear to see the way he was looking at her—right through her—without seeing her. He did not see a woman. He did not see Jane, the woman he had been so passionate with two days before. He saw, Jane swallowed hard and looked away, hating the weakness of her spirit. She was more than this, a wilting flower. She was stronger than this. But damn it, this hurt.It hurt because he was the man responsible for making her burn. For making her feel like a woman. It hurt because it had been a trick. An illusion. And it hurt most of all because he did not see her, the woman she was behind the unfashionable spectacles and garish hair.
5. Trinity Faegen – No question. I admit, you’re not what I expected, but you’re exactly what I want.”“What did you expect?”“A sweet, reserved girl who wouldn’t provoke my brother into stabbing her a hundred times.”“A wilting violet? Oh, come on, Key. You’d run all over her and forget about her in a week.”“I see that now.” He grinned at her. “I keep trying to run all over you, but you’re just so stabby.
6. J.A. Saare – Stripping is not a fair or unbiased career field. Your body and looks are your livelihood. Once those two things go, it’s only a matter of time before you punch your last T and A ticket – and Erica’s stub was wilting faster than a golden wrapped candy bar that would gain her admittance into the chocolate factory.
7. Tony Vigorito – Free will is the cutting edge of Creation, don’t you see? The word spontaneity derives from the Latin sponte, meaning ‘of one’s free will.’ Spontaneity is the impulse, the purest expression of freedom, and the impulse wants to do whatever it wants to do. But you are afraid of what others think, others who are just as afraid of what you think, and so you pussyfoot along the perimeter of the free-will zone, wilting like a wallflower.
8. Mina Alexia – I am a runaway, lost at sea. I am a broken bird, yearning to fly free. I am a sinner, unworthy and unholy. I am a rose, wilting slowly. I am a raindrop, touching your cheek.I am a child who plays hide and seek. I am nothing, and yet I am everything. I am contradictions and complexities. I am a face with a hundred entities. I am love and I am hate. I am the voice that cannot communicate. I am a melody, haunting and sad. I am a soul that has slowly gone mad. I am death in a living body. I am a dangerous opium poppy. I am rage, running through my veins. I am pain, bound in chains.I am isolation, imprisoned in my mind. I am abandoned and left behind. I am tenderness, soft and kind. I am trust, naive and blind. I am remorse, shattered and frozen. I am the path I have not chosen. I am sadness, drowning in an ocean. I am faith, yearning for devotion. I am madness, rebellious and wild. I am sanity, safely filed. I am wisdom, cursed and blessed. I am a name that will burn in your chest. I am a journey, destination unknown. I am a heart turned to stone. I am forever alone.
9. R.J. Gonzales – A flower bloomed already wilting. Beginning its life with an early ending.
10. Willa Cather – While the train flashed through never-ending miles of ripe wheat, by country towns and bright-flowered pastures and oak groves wilting in the sun, we sat in the observation car, where the woodwork was hot to the touch and red dust lay deep over everything. The dust and heat, the burning wind, reminded us of many things. We were talking about what it is like to spend one’s childhood in little towns like these, buried in wheat and corn, under stimulating extremes of climate: burning summers when the world lies green and billowy beneath a brilliant sky, when one is fairly stifled in vegetation, in the color and smell of strong weeds and heavy harvests; blustery winters with little snow, when the whole country is stripped bare and gray as sheet-iron. We agreed that no one who had not grown up in a little prairie town could know anything about it. It was a kind of freemasonry, we said.

Sample sentences:

1. The weather of love has a way of wilting or blossoming at the strangest,Most unpredictable hour.This is how love is, an uncontrollable beast in the form of a flower. The sun does not always shine on it.Nor does the rain always pour on it. Nor should it always get beaten by a storm. Love does not always emit the sweetest scents,And sometimes it can sting with its thorns.Water it.Give it plenty of sunlight.Nurture it,And the flower of love will outlive you. Neglect it or keep dissecting it. And its petals will quickly curl up and die.This is how love is. Perfection is a delusional vision. So love the person who loves you unconditionally. And abandon the one who only loves you under favorable conditions.
2. Once a blooming red rose, full of streaming life in its veins.Now a wilting black petal rupturing with death and pain.
3. Obedient to no man, dependent only on weather and season, without a goal before them or a roof above them, owning nothing, open to every whim of fate, the homeless wanderers lead their childlike, brave, shabby existence. They are the sons of Adam, who was driven out of Paradise; the brothers of the animals, of innocence. Out of heaven’s hand they accept what is given them from moment to moment: sun, rain, fog, snow, warmth, cold, comfort, and hardship; time does not exist for them and neither does history, or ambition, or that bizarre idol called progress and evolution, in which house owners believe so desperately. A wayfarer may be delicate or crude, artful or awkward, brave or cowardly—he is always a child at heart, living in the first day of creation, before the beginning of the history of the world, his life always guided by a few simple instincts and needs. He may be intelligent or stupid; he may be deeply aware of the fleeting fragility of all living things, of how pettily and fearfully each living creature carries its bit of warm blood through the glaciers of cosmic space, or he may merely follow the commands of his poor stomach with childlike greed—he is always the opponent, the deadly enemy of the established proprietor, who hates him, despises him, or fears him, because he does not wish to be reminded that all existence is transitory, that life is constantly wilting, that merciless icy death fills the cosmos all around.
4. To the Kathakali Man these stories are his children and his childhood. He has grown up within them. They are the house he was raised in, the meadows he played in. They are his windows and his way of seeing. So when he tells a story, he handles it as he would a child of his own. He teases it. He punishes it. He sends it up like a bubble. He wrestles it to the ground and lets it go again. He laughs at it because he loves it. He can fly you across whole worlds in minutes, he can stop for hours to examine a wilting leaf. Or play with a sleeping monkey’s tail. He can turn effortlessly from the carnage of war into the felicity of a woman washing her hair in a mountain stream. From the crafty ebullience of a rakshasa with a new idea into a gossipy Malayali with a scandal to spread. From the sensuousness of a woman with a baby at her breast into the seductive mischief of Krishna’s smile. He can reveal the nugget of sorrow that happiness contains. The hidden fish of shame in a sea of glory.
5. Did fear drive her? Fear of the gray, not just in the strands of her hair and her wilting cheeks, but the gray that ran deeper, to the bone, so that she thought she might turn into a fine dust and simply sift away in the wind. She cooked and cleaned, and cooked and cleaned, and found herself further consumed by the gray, until even her vision was muted and the world around her drained of color.
6. Poetry is the wailing of a broken heart―the etched sorrows of despairing souls.  These artful words are an exclamation in rare colors expressed noiselessly on parchment.  Poetry is the unheard cry of a flower, wilting.  It is a humble, lucent tear shed with meaning.  It is the lovely portrayal of ugliness and the bitter edge of sweet.  Poetry speaks to the spirit by piercing understanding. It interprets all senseless truths―beauty, love, emotion―into sensible scrawl.  Poetry is vague affirmation and bewildering clarification. Like the most poignant of emotions, we understand the essence but cannot adequately do it verbal justice, crippled by inherently weak tongues.  A spiritual soothsayer, poetry is the closest thing to expression of feelings unutterable.
7. Take of your shirt,”he said.But I hadn’t won Ethan Sullivan-and he hadn’t won me-by my playing the wilting lily to his alpha predator.I lifted my head.”I am not your possession.””Aren’t you?”At my refusal,he moved forward and gripped the hem of my shirt.
8. Okay,” I say at last. “But you have to teach me how to do animals. I can’t keep myself from wilting when I’m a plant, so I’ve been afraid to try a living form.”She laughs and shifts into the shape of a large golden retriever and almost licks me to death before I can make her stop.
9. Stay.”The strangled word, spoken in anguish, tore at her heart, ripped through her resolve. She swiped at the tears raining over her cheeks and slowly turned, forcing the painful truth past her lips. “I can’t stay. I can no longer give you what you want. I can’t give you a son.” Dallas stepped off the veranda and extended a bouquet of wildflowers toward her. “Then stay and give me what I need.” Her heart lurched at the abundance of flowers wilting within his smothering grasp. She shook her head vigorously. “You don’t need me. There are a dozen eligible women in Leighton who would happily give you a son and within the month there will be at least a dozen more—” “I’ll never love any of them as much as I love you. I know that as surely as I know the sun will come up in the morning.” Her breath caught, her trembling increased, words lodged in her throat. He loved her? She watched as he swallowed.”I know I’m not an easy man. I don’t expect you to ever love me, but if you’ll tolerate me, I give you my word that I’ll do whatever it takes to make you happy—”Quickly stepping forward, she pressed her shaking fingers against his warm lips. “My God, don’t you know that I love you? Why do you think I’m leaving? I’m leaving because I do love you—so much. Dallas, I want you to have your dream, I want you to have your son.”Closing his eyes, he laid his roughened hand over hers where it quivered against his lips and pressed a kiss against the heart of her palm.”I can’t promise that I won’t have days when I’ll look toward the horizon and feel the aching emptiness that comes from knowing we’ll never have a child to pass our legacy on to. “Opening his eyes, he captured her gaze. “But I know the emptiness you’ll leave behind will eat away at me every minute of every day.”-Dallas and Dee
10. Love, he has abandoned me,do with me as you will.Love, he left – unceremoniously,why must I love him still?The best of me I gave to him -the years, the days, the hours.Precious little, in turn he’d given,like dew to a wilting flower.Love, he sheared away tenderly,my beauty, my strength, my mind,the gifts that were bestowed to me -were swallowed in his pride.Love, has he forgotten me?Please tell me what you’ve heard,I guard his memory jealously -with him I’d place my worth.
11. Wherever you are, with whatever means you have, if you reclaim a piece of land for nature, your world will grow kinder, more benevolent. Create havens – for animals, for other people, for yourself – and let this reflect into the world. Fight for space in your own backyard, in an acre or a flowerpot or simply an embrace of the longing for company that lingers in your wilting heart. If you take this one step toward them, no matter where you are, the elephants will come to you.
12. Why Roses Crave Thorns”Petals detach from a wilting bud—a single stem plucked before fully blossomed. They descend in hesitant swirls, too soft and limp to shatter like teardrops. One by one they light to blanket a single shadow below.She is a rose, young and innocent, with beauty incomparable to shame all others. She has flowered enough to stop the observer in his tracks, awestruck. He is compelled to reach out and touch. The petals delight at a silken caress, her bud everything desirable but defenseless—without a sharp edge to make an admirer pause, to warn the intrusive hand. ‘Stay back! Stay back!’His fingers curl around the stem to tug, and suddenly the rose craves a thorn. It is madness not to want her and yet madness to cut her down. Let the flower thrive and blush to someday flaunt layers of silken favors! But the world will not have it. A single stem is severed in a selfish moment of desire—a yearning to hold and possess.Alone and forgotten her petals cry, raining in hesitant swirls where they accumulate to blanket her shadow below. Dry, withered, craving the thorns. Beautiful no more.
13. How can God give girls so much power ? How can they turn productive,busy and ambitious men into a wilting mass of uselessness.
14. Last summer I happened to be crossing the plains of Iowa in a season of intense heat, and it was my good fortune to have for a traveling companion James Quayle Burden—Jim Burden, as we still call him in the West. He and I are old friends—we grew up together in the same Nebraska town—and we had much to say to each other. While the train flashed through never-ending miles of ripe wheat, by country towns and bright-flowered pastures and oak groves wilting in the sun, we sat in the observation car, where the woodwork was hot to the touch and red dust lay deep over everything. The dust and heat, the burning wind, reminded us of many things. We were talking about what it is like to spend one’s childhood in little towns like these, buried in wheat and corn, under stimulating extremes of climate: burning summers when the world lies green and billowy beneath a brilliant sky, when one is fairly stifled in vegetation, in the color and smell of strong weeds and heavy harvests; blustery winters with little snow, when the whole country is stripped bare and gray as sheet-iron. We agreed that no one who had not grown up in a little prairie town could know anything about it. It was a kind of freemasonry, we said.
15. Oh, I was so not a wilting flower. I’d let a man pick me up and carry me because I couldn’t handle the price of using magic when I was dead. Again.
16. I’m not a wilting flower, unless that gets me extraspecial treats.
17. Jake,” she whispered, the hot blast of her exhalation making him groan. He gave in and fisted his hands in her hair.She opened to him at once, her body melting against his, wilting into his embrace so that it felt like his light pressure on her cheeks was all that held her upright. But her mouth was a hungry thing, her tongue diving in to tangle with his while her arms wound around his shoulders. He slanted his head to plunder her as deeply as he could, ravenous to explore every inch of her mouth.Forget kissing. They were eating each other alive.
18. It was good to emerge from this silent semi-darkness into a bright glade. Suddenly everything was different: the earth was warm; the air was in movement; you could smell the junipers in the sun; there were large, wilting bluebells which looked as though they had been cast from mauve-coloured metal, and wild carnations on sticky, resinous stems. You felt suddenly carefree; the glade was like one happy day in a life of poverty. The lemon-coloured butterflies, the polished, blue-black beetles, the ants, the grass-snake rustling through the grass, seemed to be joining together in a common task. Birch-twigs, sprinkled with fine leaves, brushed against his face; a grasshopper jumped up and landed on him as though he were a tree-trunk; it clung to his belt, calmly tensing its green haunches as it sat there with its round, leathery eyes and sheep-like face. The last flowers of the wild strawberries. The heat of the sun on his metal buttons and belt-clasp. No U-88 or night-flying Heinkel could ever have flown over this glade.
19. I think a funny picture would have a caption that read, “Believe in yourself,” with an accompanying image of a wilting flower.
20. he could feel his hope wilting.
21. An anonymous young man sat sniffling and crying on Sunday morning, head cradled in hands, glancing at a plain tree strung up with wilting roses and proteas.
22. Any notion of Michael Norman wilting under the pressure of the big stage disappeared minutes into Friday night’s CIF state track and field preliminaries.
23. The Scot at times appeared close to wilting in the cauldron of Centre Court which is a notorious sun trap, made worse by the slight overhang of the roof.
24. Milwaukee, coming off a league-worst -67 campaign, played well for much of the night under new head coach Jason Kidd before wilting down the stretch.
25. Adventure gear retailer Kathmandu Holdings has become the latest victim of wilting consumer confidence and unseasonably warm weather.
26. The makeshift rampart sprawls across Instytutska Street, three scorched rubber tires high and hundreds of wilting carnations deep.
27. French President François Hollande recently announced plans to resuscitate the country’s wilting economy.
28. For example, too little water or low temperatures lead to clear responses such as wilting or defoliation.
29. A-League champions Brisbane Roar have been held to a -0 draw by a wilting Sydney FC at Suncorp Stadium.
30. The rising goalie’s club will soar against the wilting Maple Leafs.