Land is not merely soil, it is a fountain of energy flowing through a circuit of soils, plants and animals.
I don't take myself seriously any more. Sometimes I just garden in my knickers and platform shoes.
In joy or sadness, flowers are our constant friends.
A flower is an educated weed.
Sadness is but a wall between two gardens.
The poetry of the earth is never dead.
To me a lush carpet of pine needles or spongy grass is more welcome than the most luxurious Persian rug.
Climate is what we expect, weather is what we get.
Those who contemplate the beauty of the earth find reserves of strength that will endure as long as life lasts. There is something infinitely healing in the repeated refrains of nature -- the assurance that dawn comes after night, and spring after winter.
Oh, Adam was a gardener, and God who made him sees That half a proper gardener's work is done upon his knees, So when your work is finished, you can wash your hands and pray For the Glory of the Garden, that it may not pass away!
To garden is to let optimism get the better of judgment.
A garden is an awful responsibility. You never know what you may be aiding to grow in it.
Gardening has compensations out of all proportion to its goals. It is creation in the pure sense.
I am the fonder of my garden for all the trouble it gives me, and the grudging reward that my unending labours exact.
To get the best results you must talk to your vegetables.
This garden has a soul, I know its moods.
With plants, persuasion is better than force.
An hour's hard digging is a good way of getting one's mind back in the right perspective.
Gardening is the best therapy in the world.
Nature abhors a garden.
He who is born with a silver spoon in his mouth is generally considered a fortunate person, but his good fortune is small compared to that of the happy mortal who enters this world with a passion for flowers in his soul.
Last night, there came a frost, which has done great damage to my garden.... It is sad that Nature will play such tricks on us poor mortals, inviting us with sunny smiles to confide in her, and then, when we are entirely within her power, striking us to the heart.
A garden was the primitive prison, till man with Promethean felicity and boldness, luckily sinned himself out of it.
By the time one is eighty, it is said, there is no longer a tug of war in the garden with the May flowers hauling like mad against the claims of the other months. All is at last in balance and all is serene. The gardener is usually dead, of course.
Your garden will reveal yourself.
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