Summer makes a silence after spring.

Prose is a poor thing, a poor inadequate thing, compared with poetry which says so much more in shorter time.

April, the angel of the months, the young love of the year.

The wise traveler is he who is perpetually surprised.

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

A flowerless room is a soulless room, to my way of thinking; but even a solitary little vase of a living flower may redeem it.

Growth is exciting; growth is dynamic and alarming.