Like the musician, the painter, the poet and the rest, the true lover of flowers is born, not made.

Oh, I never meant, in my old age, to become subject to the thrall of a love like this; it is almost dreadful, so absorbing, so stirring down to the deeps. For the tiny creature is so old and wise and sweet, and so fascinating in his sturdy common sense and clear intelligence; and his affection for me is a wonderful, exquisite thing, the sweetest flower that has bloomed for me in all my life through.

Look to the East, where up the lucid sky; the morning climbs! The day shall yet be fair.

The eternal sound of the sea on every side has a tendency to wear away the edge of human thought and perception.

Like the musician, the painter, the poet, and the rest, the true lover of flowers is born, not made. And he is born to happiness in this vale of tears, to a certain amount of the purest joy that earth can giver her children, joy that is tranquil, innocent, uplifting, unfailing.

To stand by the beds at sunrise and see the flowers awake is a heavenly delight.

Like the musician, the painter, the poet and the rest, the true lover of flowers is born, not made.