Not Seeing Is Half-believing.

But You, Oh Gardener, Poet That You Be / Though Unaware, Now Use Your Seeds Like Words / And Make Them Lilt With Color Nicely Flung.

There Is Always Something Else To Do. A Gardener Should Have Nine Times As Many Lives As A Cat.

My Garden All Is Overblown With Roses,/ My Spirit All Is Overblown With Rhyme.

Flowers Really Do Intoxicate Me.

It Is Necessary To Write, If The Days Are Not To Slip Emptily By. How Else, Indeed, To Clap The Net Over The Butterfly Of The Moment?