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

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

As the days go on toward July, the earth becomes dry and all the flowers begin to thirst for moisture. Then from the hillside, some warm, still evening, the sweet rain-song of the robin echoes clear, and next day we wake up to a dim morning; soft flecks of cloud bar the sun's way, fleecy vapors steal across the sky, the southwest wind blows lightly, rippling the water into little waves that murmur melodiously as they kiss the shore.

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

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.

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.