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

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

Summer makes a silence after spring.

To hope for Paradise is to live in Paradise, a very different thing from actually getting there.

Travel is in sad case. It is uncomfortable, it is expensive; it is a source of annoyance to our friends, and of loneliness to ourselves.

I suppose the pleasure of the country life lies really in the eternally renewed evidences of the determination to live. That is a truism when said, but anything but a truism when daily observed. Nothing shows up the difference between the thing said or read, so much as the daily experience of it.

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.