A garden is a place for shaping a little world of your own according to your heart's desire.

Do you ever find yourself bursting into a sort of lunatic laughter at the sheer prettiness of things?

It is only to the gardener that time is a friend, giving each year more than he steals.

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

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

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.