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

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

As I hold the flower in my hand and think of trying to describe it, I realize how poor a creature I am, how impotent are words in the presence of such perfection.

When in these fresh mornings I go into my garden before any one is awake, I go for the time being into perfect happiness.

When the snow is still blowing against the window-pane in January and February and the wild winds are howling without, what pleasure it is to plan for summer that is to be.

As I work among my flowers, I find myself talking to them, reasoning and remonstrating with them, and adoring them as if they were human beings. Much laughter I provoke among my friends by so doing, but that is of no consequence. We are on such good terms, my flowers and I.

I am fully and intensely aware that plants are conscious of love and respond to it as they do to nothing else.