Soon will set in the fitful weather, with fierce gales and sullen skies and frosty air, and it will be time to tuck up safely my roses and lillies and the rest for their winter sleep beneath the snow, where I never forget them, but ever dream of their wakening in happy summers yet to be.

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.

There shall be an eternal summer in the grateful heart.

It is curious that the leaf should so love the light and the root so hate it.

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.

This very act of planting a seed in the earth has in it to me something beautiful. I always do it with a joy that is largely mixed with awe.