My Virgin Sense Of Sound

Where Has Thou Been All The Dumb Winter Days When Neither Sunlight Was Nor Smile Of Flowers, Neither Life, Nor Love, Nor Frolic, Only Expanse Melancholic, With Never A Note Of Thy Exhilarating Lays?

Tears Are Summer Showers To The Soul.

If Nature Built By Rule And Square, Than Man What Wiser Would She Be? What Wins Us Is Her Careless Care, And Sweet Unpunctuality.

The Glory Of Gardening: Hands In The Dirt, Head In The Sun, Heart With Nature. To Nurture A Garden Is To Feed Not Just On The Body, But The Soul.

When Held Up To The Window Pane, What Fixed My Baby Stare? The Glory Of The Glittering Rain, And Newness Everywhere.