Like the musician, the painter, the poet and the rest, the true lover of flowers is born, not made. — Celia Thaxter Copy Share Image
Like the musician, the painter, the poet, and the rest, the true lover of flowers is born, not made. And he is born to happiness in this vale of tears, to a certain amount of the purest joy that earth… — 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
