There Is No Gardening Without Humility

Where Has Thou Been All The Dumb Winter Days When Neither Sunlight Was Nor Smile Of Flowers, Neither Life, Nor Love, Nor Frolic, Only Expanse Melancholic, With Never A Note Of Thy Exhilarating Lays?

Through The Dripping Weeks That Follow One Another Slow, And Soak Summer's Extinguished Fire And Autumn's Drifting Smoke.

We Come From The Earth, We Return To The Earth, And In Between We Garden.

He Is Dead Already Who Doth Not Feel Life Is Worth Living Still.

Tears Are Summer Showers To The Soul.