There is always something else to do. A gardener should have nine times as many lives as a cat.
Forget not bees in winter, though they sleep.
April, the angel of the months, the young love of the year.
I suppose the pleasure of country life lies really in the eternally renewed evidences of the determination to live.
Women, like men, ought to have their years so glutted with freedom that they hate the very idea of freedom.
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.
Gardening is a luxury occupation: an ornament, not a necessity, of life.... Fortunate gardener, who may preoccupy himself solely with beauty in these difficult and ugly days! He is one of the few people left in this distressful world to carry on the tradition of elegance and charm. A useless member of society, considered in terms of economics, he must not be denied his rightful place. He deserves to share it, however humbly, with the painter and poet.
For the last 40 years of my life I have broken my back, my fingernails, and sometimes my heart, in the practical pursuit of my favourite occupation.
I do not like January very much. It is too stationary. Not enough happens. I like the evidences of life, and in January there are too few of them.
What is beautiful is good, and who is good will soon be beautiful.
I cannot abide the Mr. and Mrs. Noah attitude towards marriage; the animals went in two by two, forever stuck together with glue.
It is dreadful how I miss you, and everything that everybody says seems flat and stupid.
Everywhere bees go racing with the hours, / For every bee becomes a drunken lover, / Standing upon his head to sup the flowers.
Serenity of spirit and turbulence of action should make up the sum of a man's life.
I worshipped dead men for their strength, Forgetting I was strong.
My garden all is overblown with roses,/ My spirit all is overblown with rhyme.
See the last orange roses, how they blow / Deeper and heavier than in their prime, / In one defiant flame before they go.
The farmer and the gardener are both busy, the gardener perhaps the more excitable of the two, for he is more of the amateur, concerned with the creation of beauty rather than with the providing of food. Gardening is a luxury occupation; an ornament, not a necessity, of life.
When, and how, and at what stage of our development did spirituality and our strange notions of religion arise? the need for worship which is nothing more than our frightened refuge into propitiation of a Creator we do not understand? A detective story, the supreme Who-done-it, written in indecipherable hieroglyphics, no Rosetta stone supplied by the consummate Mystifier to tease us poor fumbling unravellers of his plot.
Autumn in felted slipper shuffles on, Muted yet fiery.--Vita Sackville-West
There are no signposts in the sea.
There is something intrinsically wrong about letters. For one thing they are not instantaneous. ... Nor is this the only trouble about letters. They do not arrive often enough. A letter which has been passionately awaited should be immediately supplemented by another one, to counteract the feeling of flatness that comes upon us when the agonizing delights of anticipation have been replaced by the colder flood of fulfilment.
Of course I should love to throw a toothbrush into a bag, and just go, quite vaguely, without any plans or even a real destination. It is the Wanderlust.
To hope for Paradise is to live in Paradise, a very different thing from actually getting there.
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.
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