What is a weed? A plant whose virtues have never been discovered.
Consult the genius of the place, that paints as you plant, and as you work.
I think I may be a better person for having given serious time and thought and effort to gardening.
We are stardust, we are golden and we've got to get ourselves back to the garden.
Freedom has its life in the hearts, the actions, the spirit of men and so it must be daily earned and refreshed - else like a flower cut from its life-giving roots, it will wither and die.
The ultimate goal of farming is not the growing of crops, but the cultivation and perfection of human beings.
A garden should make you feel you've entered privileged space -- a place not just set apart but reverberant -- and it seems to me that, to achieve this, the gardener must put some kind of twist on the existing landscape, turn its prose into something nearer poetry.
Gardening is akin to writing stories. No experience could have taught me more about grief or flowers, about achieving survival by going, your fingers in the ground, the limit of physical exhaustion.
And when your back stops aching and your hands begin to harden, You will find yourself a partner in the Glory of the Garden.
Us sing and dance, make faces and give flower bouquets, trying to be loved. You ever notice that trees do everything to git attention we do, except walk?
Nature does not complete things. She is chaotic. Man must finish, and he does so by making a garden and building a wall.
A weed is but an unloved flower.
Yes, in the poor man's garden grow Far more than herbs and flowers - Kind thoughts, contentment, peace of mind, And Joy for weary hours.
The unmulched garden looks to me like some naked thing which for one reason or another would be better off with a few clothes on.
Fit for kings, formal gardens afford an earthly Elysium and the odd impression that we mere men might actually control nature for a time.
God Almighty first planted a garden. And indeed, it is the purest of human pleasures.
The wilderness is near as well as dear to every man. Even the oldest villages are indebted to the border of wild wood which surrounds them, more than to the gardens of men. There is something indescribably inspiriting and beautiful in the aspect of the forest skirting and occasionally jutting into the midst of new towns, which, like the sand-heaps of fresh fox-burrows, have sprung up in their midst. The very uprightness of the pines and maples asserts the ancient rectitude and vigor of nature. Our lives need the relief of such a background, where the pine flourishes and the jay still screams.
Trees and plants always look like the people they live with, somehow.
The true object of all human life is play. Earth is a task garden; heaven is a playground.
But though an old man, I am but a young gardener.
Kind hearts are the garden, kind thoughts are the roots, kind words are the blossoms, kind deeds are the fruit.
Bloom where you are planted!
Gardening is not a rational act.
Unemployment is capitalism's way of getting you to plant a garden.
All gardening is landscape painting.
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