Click, Clack, Click, Clack, Went Their Conversation,

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

I Like Muddling Things Up; And If A Herb Looks Nice In A Border, Then Why Not Grow It There? Why Not Grow Anything Anywhere So Long As It Looks Right Where It Is? That Is, Surely, The Art Of Gardening.

Is It Better To Be Extremely Ambitious, Or Rather Modest? Probably The Latter Is Safer; But I Hate Safety, And Would Rather Fail Gloriously Than Dingily Succeed.

All The Small Squalors Of The Body, Known Only To Oneself, Insignificant In Youth, Easily Dismissed, In Old Age Became Dominant And Entered Into Fulfilment Of The Tyranny They Had Always Threatened.

I Suppose The Pleasure Of The Country Life Lies Really In The Eternally Renewed Evidences Of The Determination To Live. That Is A Truism When Said, But Anything But A Truism When Daily Observed. Nothing Shows Up The Difference Between The Thing Said Or Read, So Much As The Daily Experience Of It.