A garden is not a picture, but a language.

All anybody needs to know about prizes is that Mozart never won one.

Wherever humans garden magnificently, there are magnificent heartbreaks.

Almost any garden, if you see it at just the right moment, can be confused with paradise.

There is nothing like the first hot days of spring when the gardener stops wondering if it's too soon to plant the dahlias and starts wondering if it's too late. Even the most beautiful weather will not allay the gardener's notion (well-founded actually) that he is somehow too late, too soon, or that he has too much stuff going on or not enough. For the garden is the stage on which the gardener exults and agonizes out every crest and chasm of the heart.

Compared to gardeners, I think it is generally agreed that others understand very little about anything of consequence.

Nature does not hesitate to interfere with me. So I do not hesitate to tamper with it.