Winter sunshine is a fairy wand touching everything with a strange magic. It is like the smile of a friend in time of sorrow.

Every noble achievement is a dream before it is a reality just as the oak is an acorn before it is a tree.

If you want good roses, sharpen your knife and harden your heart.

The trees change their voices in autumn as well as their shapes. No longer do they whisper to one another in muffled tones as they did in summer; they talk in a different leaf-language now. The wind moves through the boughs like fingers drawn across the strings of a harp filling the air with the harsh dry sound of sapless leaves. It is the main theme of the autumn music, this murmuring counterpoint of dead leaves.

In looking back we remember only the triumphant consummations of each season. Failures and frustrations are forgotten; garden-memories are as perfect as garden-hopes.

September is the month of maturity; the heaped basket and the garnered sheaf. It is the month of climax and completion. September! I never tire of turning it over and over in my mind. It has warmth, depth and colour. It glows like old amber.

in February there is everything to hope for and nothing to regret.