How deeply seated in the human heart is the liking for gardens and gardening.
My garden, with its silence and pulses of fragrance that come and go on the airy undulations, affects me like sweet music. Care stops at the gates, and gazes at me wistfully through the bars.
In my garden I spend my days; in my library I spend my nights.
In my garden I spend my days, in my library I spend my nights. My interests are divided between my geraniums and my books. With the flower I am in the present; with the book I am in the past.
In my garden, care stops at the gate and gazes at me wistfully through the bars.
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