Look to the East where up the lucid sky The morning climbs! The day shall yet be fair.

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.

Already the dandelions Are changed into vanishing ghosts.

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 thing that struck me early is that you don’t put into a photograph what’s going to come out. Or, vice versa, what comes out is not what you put in.

Anybody who's putting out records is probably not making money at it.

We tend to buy things - a lot of things - where we don't know exactly what will happen, but the outcome will be decent.

I think I'm chronically exhausted.

Against the persecution of a tyrant the godly have no remedy but prayer.

It can hit at any time [anxiety/panic attack]. You feel like you're in an open field, and there's a tornado coming at you. And you're just consumed by it.

We have to end the capitalist system. We have to make love our value. You are rich when you love and you are rich when you are giving away your time and what you have to help other people.

He who confesses magic or sorcery shall do penance for the time of murder, and shall be treated in the same manner as he who convicts himself of this sin.

I have mummy truths to tell Whereat the living mock, Though not for sober ear, For maybe all that hear Should laugh and weep an hour upon the clock.

Everything I do and say and the way I do and say it annoys me.