The garden, historically, is the place where all the senses are exploited. Not just the eye, but the ear - with water, with birds. And there is texture, too, in plants you long to touch.
If we had no winter, the spring would not be so pleasant.
Spring is when you feel like whistling even with a shoe full of slush.
A garden is a grand teacher... above all it teaches entire trust.
A garden is always a series of losses set against a few triumphs, like life itself.
Every year, back comes Spring, with nasty little birds yapping their fool heads off and the ground all mucked up with plants.
The unmulched garden looks to me like some naked thing which for one reason or another would be better off with a few clothes on.
What is one to say about June, the time of perfect young summer, the fulfillment of the promise of the earlier months, and with as yet no sign to remind one that its fresh young beauty will ever fade.
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