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 can give her children, joy that is tranquil, innocent, uplifting, unfailing.
Given a little patch of ground, with time to take care of it, with tools to work it and seeds to plant in it, he
has all he
needs, and Nature with her
dews and suns and showers and sweet airs gives him her
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