I loved you when love was Spring, and May, Loved you when summer deepened into June, and now when autumn yellows all the leaves.

Everywhere bees go racing with the hours, / For every bee becomes a drunken lover, / Standing upon his head to sup the flowers.

There is always something else to do. A gardener should have nine times as many lives as a cat.

There is something intrinsically wrong about letters. For one thing they are not instantaneous. ... Nor is this the only trouble about letters. They do not arrive often enough. A letter which has been passionately awaited should be immediately supplemented by another one, to counteract the feeling of flatness that comes upon us when the agonizing delights of anticipation have been replaced by the colder flood of fulfilment.

however many resolutions one makes, one's pen, like water, always finds its own level, and one can't write in any way other than one's own.

Click, clack, click, clack, went their conversation, like so many knitting-needles, purl, plain, purl, plain, achieving a complex pattern of references, cross-references, Christian names, nicknames, and fleeting allusions.

The wise traveler is he who is perpetually surprised.