I Long For The Bulbs To Arrive,

A Garden Is Always A Series Of Losses Set Against A Few Triumphs, Like Life Itself.

It Is Sometimes The Most Fragile Things That Have The Power To Endure And Become Sources Of Strength.

O Cruel Cloudless Space, And Pale Bare Ground Where The Poor Infant Lies! Why Do We Feel Restored As In A Sacramental Place? Here Mystery Is Artifice, And Here A Vision Of Such Peace Is Stored, Healing Flows From It Through Our Eyes.

There Is Only One Real Deprivation... And That Is Not To Be Able To Give One's Gifts To Those One Loves Most.

One Of The Springs Of Poetry Is Joy.