O brief, bright smile of summer! O days divine and dear The voices of winter's sorrow Already we can hear. And we… — Celia Thaxter Copy Share Image
Soon will set in the fitful weather, with fierce gales and sullen skies and frosty air, and it will be time to… — Celia Thaxter Copy Share Image
As the days go on toward July, the earth becomes dry and all the flowers begin to thirst for moisture. Then from… — Celia Thaxter Copy Share Image
Look to the East, where up the lucid sky; the morning climbs! The day shall yet be fair. — Celia Thaxter Copy Share Image
It seems to me the worst of all the plagues is the slug, the snail without a shell. He is beyond description repulsive, a… — Celia Thaxter Copy Share Image
It is curious that the leaf should so love the light and the root so hate it. — Celia Thaxter Copy Share Image
When the snow is still blowing against the window-pane in January and February and the wild winds are howling without, what pleasure it is… — Celia Thaxter Copy Share Image
Peacefully The quiet stars came out, one after one; The holy twilight fell upon the sea, The summer day was done. — Celia Thaxter Copy Share Image
I am fully and intensely aware that plants are conscious of love and respond to it as they do to nothing else. — Celia Thaxter Copy Share Image
Once more their weird laughter of the loons comes to my ear, the distance lends it a musical, melancholy sound. For a dangerous ledge… — Celia Thaxter Copy Share Image
The toad has indeed no superior as a destroyer of noxious insects, and he possesses no bad habits and is entirely inoffensive himself, every… — Celia Thaxter Copy Share Image
So deeply is the gardener's instinct implanted in my soul, I really love the tools with which I work; the iron fork, the spade,… — Celia Thaxter Copy Share Image
“Who shall compass or fathom God's thought profound? We can but praise, for we may not understand; But there's no more beautiful riddle the… — Celia Thaxter Copy Share Image
O brief, bright smile of summer! O days divine and dear The voices of winter's sorrow Already we can hear. And we know that… — Celia Thaxter Copy Share Image
