Marriage is a book of which the first chapter is written in poetry and the remaining chapters in prose.

A garden without cats, it will be generally agreed, can scarcely deserve to be called a garden at all...much of the magic of the heather beds would vanish if, as we bent over them, there was no chance that we might hear a faint rustle among the blossoms, and find ourselves staring into a pair of sleepy green eyes.

A gardener is never shut out from his garden, wherever he may be. Its comfort never fails. Though the city may close about him, and the grime and soot descend upon him, he can still wander in his garden, does he but close his eyes.

To dig one's own spade into one's own earth! Has life anything better to offer than this?

We both know, you and I, that if all men were gardeners, the world at last would be at peace.

Well, I love geraniums, and anybody who does not love geraniums must obviously be a depraved and loathsome person.

I had never 'taken a cutting' before ... Do you realize that the whole thing is miraculous? It is exactly as though you were to cut off your wife's leg, stick it in the lawn, and be greeted on the following day by an entirely new woman, sprung from the leg, advancing across the lawn to meet you.