Already the dandelions Are changed into vanishing ghosts.

I wonder what spendthrift chose to spill Such a bright gold under my windowsill! Is it fair gold? Does it glitter still? Bless me! It's a daffodil!

Sad soul, take comfort, nor forget That sunrise never failed us yet.

When in these fresh mornings I go into my garden before any one is awake, I go for the time being into perfect happiness.

There shall be an eternal summer in the grateful heart.

Like the musician, the painter, the poet and the rest, the true lover of flowers is born, not made.

It seems to me the worst of all the plagues is the slug, the snail without a shell. He is beyond description repulsive, a mass of sooty, shapeless slime, and he devours everything.

Ever since I could remember anything, flowers have been like dear friends to me, comforters, inspirers, powers to uplift and to cheer.

This very act of planting a seed in the earth has in it to me something beautiful. I always do it with a joy that is largely mixed with awe.

When the snow is still blowing against the window-pane in January and February and the wild winds are howling without, what pleasure it is to plan for summer that is to be.

One golden day redeems a weary year

The valuable attributes of research men are conscious ignorance and active curiosity.

You are mine, and Heaven itself cannot rescue you from my power.

With two small children, I haven't had a wash since 2001 so the chance to go shopping is way down the list. It is something I do intend to get.

As popular as Christmas is, it would be even bigger if it had vampires.

If you phone a psychic and she doesn't answer the phone before it rings, hang up.

I never feel more at home than at a ballgame.

Things looked at patiently from one side after another generally end by showing a side that is beautiful.

Acting is an odd lifestyle. You make deep bonds quickly and, though you move on, you go around on a loop and see people again.

All humans have fear, and those of us who are fortunate have faith.

Oh, injurious love, that respites me a life, whose very comfort is still a dying horror