My garden all is overblown with roses,/ My spirit all is overblown with rhyme.

I cannot bear that you / Should think me faithful, when I am untrue.

See the last orange roses, how they blow / Deeper and heavier than in their prime, / In one defiant flame before they go.

Every garden-maker should be an artist along his own lines. That is the only possible way to create a garden, irrespective of size or wealth.

How subtle is the relationship between the traveler and his luggage! He knows, as no one else knows, its idiosyncrasies, its contents ... and always some small nuisance which he wishes he had not brought; had known, indeed, before starting that he would regret it, but brought it all the same.

Flowers really do intoxicate me.

The more one gardens, the more one learns; And the more one learns, the more one realizes how little one knows.