“A sensitive plant in a garden grew, And the young winds fed it with silver dew, And it opened its fan like leaves to the light, and closed them beneath the kisses of night.”

Heaven’s ebon vault Studded with stars unutterably bright, Through which the moon’s unclouded grandeur rolls, Seems like a canopy which love has spread To curtain her sleeping world.

I have been a wanderer among distant fields. I have sailed down mighty rivers.

When the lamp is shattered The light in the dust lies dead – When the cloud is scattered The rainbow’s glory is shed.

Poetry is a sword of lightning, ever unsheathed, which consumes the scabbard that would contain it.

It is not a merit to tolerate, but rather a crime to be intolerant.

Sometimes The Devil is a gentleman.

The warm sun is failing, the bleak wind is wailing, The bare boughs are sighing, the pale flowers are dying, And the Year On the earth her death-bed, in a shroud of leaves dead, Is lying.

When a thing is said to be not worth refuting you may be sure that either it is flagrantly stupid – in which case all comment is superfluous – or it is something formidable, the very crux of the problem.

Love’s very pain is sweet, But its reward is in the world divine Which, if not here, it builds beyond the grave.

The rich have become richer, and the poor have become poorer; and the vessel of the state is driven between the Scylla and Charybdis of anarchy and despotism.

I love tranquil solitude And such society As is quiet, wise, and good.

Nothing in the world is single, All things by a law divine, In one spirit meet and mingle-Why not I with thine?

War is the statesman’s game, the priest’s delight, the lawyer’s jest, the hired assassin’s trade.

I have drunken deep of joy, And I will taste no other wine tonight.

There is no disease, bodily or mental, which adoption of vegetable diet, and pure water has not infallibly mitigated, wherever the experiment has been fairly tried.

Sometimes it’s better to put love into hugs than to put it into words. Soul meets soul on lovers’ lips.

Storms can ruin gardens, but that doesn’t mean you won’t see flowers again.

Apart from painting and gardening, I’m not good at anything.

I actually have a punching bag right outside in my garden.

My garden is my most beautiful masterpiece

Gardening was something I learned in my youth when I was unhappy. I perhaps owe having become a painter to flowers.

I work at my garden all the time and with love. What I need most are flowers, always. My heart is forever in Giverny.

In God’s garden of grace, even broken trees bear fruit…

We choose our gardens based on what will bloom, and we wait out the seasons, until they do. And sometimes, love needs patience too.