Water and flowers spilled over carpets.

Fresh flowers spilled red and orange and blue from an earthenware vase.

The flowers spilled from the opening like a mass of gold and brown water, a huge riotous bouquet.

Fresh flowers spilled a heady perfume into the wet morning air, thousands of blossoms tied in dripping bunches.

Her favorite flowers, wisteria and daffodils, spilled from vases on pedestals.

The flowers, which look like clusters of tiny white stars, spilled out of the pot and climbed up the electric conduits toward the glass ceiling.

All the rooms I passed were full of cast-off clothing, forgotten combs and brushes, withered flowers still in the vases, powder spilled on the floor.

So the flowers spilled generously over the edges, and the trailing varieties dangled their brilliant blooms almost as far down the hill as the next lower terrace.

New York was at its best on fine May evenings when flowers burst out of beautification troughs along the avenues and spilled from vendors' carts.

Candles and flowers spill across the sidewalk.