I suppose the pleasure of country life lies really in the eternally renewed evidences of the determination to live.

One must be businesslike, although the glass is falling.

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

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

Successful gardening is not necessarily a question of wealth, it is a question of love, taste, and knowledge.

how poor and disheartening a thing is experience compared with hope!

It is necessary to write, if the days are not to slip emptily by. How else, indeed, to clap the net over the butterfly of the moment? For the moment passes, it is forgotten; the mood is gone; life itself is gone. That is where the writer scores over his fellows: he catches the changes of his mind on the hop.