I Have A Room Whereinto No One

Hope Is Like A Hairball Trembling From Its Birth.

I Wonder If The Sap Is Stirring Yet, If Wintry Birds Are Dreaming Of A Mate, If Frozen Snowdrops Feel As Yet The Sun And Crocus Fires Are Kindling One By One: Sing Robin, Sing: I Still Am Sore In Doubt Concerning Spring.

I Watched A Rose-bud Very Long Brought On By Dew And Sun And Shower, Waiting To See The Perfect Flower: Then When I Thought It Should Be Strong It Opened At The Matin Hour And Fell At Even-song.

A Man Is Ever Apt To Contemplate Himself Out Of All Proportion To His Surroundings.

Flowers Preach To Us If We Will Hear.