A Book Is A Garden,

In The Morning, We Carry The World Like Atlas; At Noon, We Stoop And Bend Beneath It; And At Night, It Crushes Us Flat To The Ground.

The Tree Is But A Huge Boquet.

Sorrows Are Gardeners: They Plant Flowers Along Waste Places, And Teach Vines To Cover Barren Heaps.

Books Are Not Made For Furniture, But There Is Nothing Else That So Beautifully Furnishes A House.

A Love Of Flowers Would Beget Early Rising, Industry, Habits Of Close Observation, And Of Reading. It Would Incline The Mind To Notice Natural Phenomena, And To Reason Upon Them. It Would Occupy The Mind With Pure Thoughts, And Inspire A Sweet And Gentle Enthusiasm; Maintain Simplicity Of Taste; And ... Unfold In The Heart An Enlarged, Unstraightened, Ardent Piety.