what is life worth if one has nothing to give away? This lack, it seems to me, must be the sharpest pang of poverty.

Neither a garden nor a gardener can be made in one year, nor in one generation even.

Why is it that so many people think that charity consists in giving away merely what they cannot use instead of the article the recipient needs?

in the city at best one lives the life of others, the life of the shop, the street, the crowd, while in the country one must live one's own life.

it is really astonishing how few colors are inharmonious when they are profusely massed and have green for a background.

I have always noticed that when people consider others eccentric, it is because they are reveling in some form of enjoyment that their critics can neither compass nor share.

Let everyone who makes garden plans frequently insert the letters C.P. in them as a reminder, the same standing for climate permitting.

It doesn't so much matter what one loves. To love is the transfiguring thing.

Mother love is invariably held sacred, as it should be, but why has father love never had its due?

Surely there is no greater garden for human-nature study than the flotsam and jetsam of the hospital.

even as human vitality is at its lowest ebb in the early morning, so it is with plant life in the early spring.

Say, will the falcon, stooping from above, Smit with her varying plumage, spare the dove? Admires the jay the insect's gilded wings? Or hears the hawk when Philomela sings?

You, who were made by Love, made for love-- be still and know and watch love come down.

Remember, Life is a journey, not a destination.

Security isn't a thing you get and hold onto. You have to let it go and earn it again, over and over.

Ulysses He ... saw the dark tangled curls of his bush floating, floating hair of the stream around the limp father of thousands, a languid flatong flower.

If I ever tell the same story twice, just laugh and roll with it because, when you get older, you start doing that kind of stuff.

In Europe democracy is a falsehood. I do not know where it will end, but it cannot end in a quiet old age.

Cato kneels beside Clove, spear in hand, begging her to stay with him. In a moment, he will realize it's futile, she can't be saved.

We are like the herb which flourisheth most when it is most trampled on.

If some countries have too much history, we have too much geography.