Everywhere the devil spits, poison ivy grows.

A good gardener looks at every plant every day.

we are the living links in a life force that moves and plays around and through us, binding the deepest soils with the farthest stars.

It is not the gardener that makes the garden. It is the garden that makes the gardener.

There is one rule in the garden that is above all others. You must give to nature more than you take. Obey it, and the earth will provide you in glorious abundance.

The Gardener does not create the Garden. The Garden creates the Gardener.

What is commonly called a pest is nature's way of bringing back into balance an imbalance that man has created.

Filthy, mucky tools: filthy, mucky work. Clean, beautiful tools: clean, beautiful work.

We need to create the beauty and the quality first. The quantity will follow.

The one infallible sign that a spiritual teacher is a fraud is that he charges money for his instruction.

If you obey the technique to perfection, that technique will become invisible.

They tell me, shaking their heads:"You should be kinder. You are somehow furious".I used to be kind. It didn’t last long.

There was no luck. There was only preparation meets opportunity, and recognizing the latter and knowing when to seize it was ninety percent of any great success.

But the lover's power is the poet's power. He can make love from all the common strings with which this world is strung.

Too often, we see wedge politics and petty rhetoric used to belittle adversaries and inflame partisan divisions.

The underdog often starts the fight, and occasionally the upper dog deserves to win.

With out each member, SS501 isn't complete. No matter how great the songs are, it wouldn't be the same without each member.

I think we all want something to knock us on the head and change our lives.

The trick to getting things done is to list things to do in doable order.

When you stop admiring yourself and let the eyes of the heart open your vision to vast other worlds then all you do, will become admirable

his thumbs ran over my cheeks. Our foreheads touched. My dreamscape scorched. He set fire to the poppies