Still, No Gardener Would Be A Gardener

The True Solitary ... Will Feel That He Is Himself Only When He Is Alone; When He Is In Company He Will Feel That He Perjures Himself, Prostitutes Himself To The Exactions Of Others; He Will Feel That Time Spent In Company Is Time Lost; He Will Be Conscious Only Of His Impatience To Get Back To His True Life.

Prose Is A Poor Thing, A Poor Inadequate Thing, Compared With Poetry Which Says So Much More In Shorter Time.

Still, No Gardener Would Be A Gardener If He Did Not Live In Hope.

Not Seeing Is Half-believing.

There's No Beginning To The Farmer's Year, / Only Recurrent Patterns On A Scroll / Unwinding...