Tools have their own integrity.

all the small squalors of the body, known only to oneself, insignificant in youth, easily dismissed, in old age became dominant and entered into fulfilment of the tyranny they had always threatened.

But you, oh gardener, poet that you be / Though unaware, now use your seeds like words / And make them lilt with color nicely flung.

The wise traveler is he who is perpetually surprised.

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

Autumn in felted slipper shuffles on, Muted yet fiery.--Vita Sackville-West

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