People from a planet without flowers would think we must be mad with joy the whole time to have such things about us.

Nothing is so beautiful as spring - when weeds, in wheels, shoot long and lovely and lush Thrush's eggs look little low heavens, and thrush through the echoing timber does so rinse and wring the ear, it strikes like lightning to hear him sing.

Let a hundred flowers bloom, let a hundred schools of thought contend.

Poor, dear, silly Spring, preparing her annual surprise!

Life has loveliness to sell, all beautiful and splendid things, blue waves whitened on a cliff, soaring fire that sways and sings, and children's faces looking up, holding wonder like a cup.

There's always a period of curious fear between the first sweet-smelling breeze and the time when the rain comes cracking down.

In some mysterious way woods have never seemed to me to be static things. In physical terms, I move through them yet in metaphysical ones, they seem to move through me.

The flower is the poetry of reproduction. It is an example of the eternal seductiveness of life.

The mind, in proportion as it is cut off from free communication with nature, with revelation, with God, with itself, loses its life, just as the body droops when debarred from the air and the cheering light from heaven.

There is a muscular energy in sunlight corresponding to the spiritual energy of wind.