Gardens are not made by sitting in the shade.
We are all dying, every moment that passes of every day. That is the inescapable truth of this existence. It is a truth that can paralyze us with fear, or one that can energize us with impatience, with the desire to explore and experience, with the hope- nay, the iron-will!- to find a memory in every action. To be alive, under sunshine, or starlight, in weather fair or stormy. To dance with every step, be they through gardens of flowers or through deep snows.
Our bodies are our gardens to which our wills are gardeners.
Would women find vampires even sexier and more romantic if instead of fangs they had rose thorns? It’s thoughts like these I think of when digging in my garden, looking for my one true love (If only I could remember where I buried her!).

No synonym for God is so perfect as Beauty. Whether as seen carving the lines of the mountains with glaciers, or gathering matter into stars, or planning the movements of water, or gardening - still all is Beauty!
What a glorious garden of wonders the lights of Broadway would be to anyone lucky enough to be unable to read.
If there is no gardener there is no garden.
I love Guns N’ Roses. Reminds me of the last time I tried to pick flowers from my neighbor’s garden.
Gardener, for telling me these news of woe, pray God the plants thou graft'st may never grow.
If I had a flower for every time I thought of you...I could walk through my garden forever.