“Many eyes go through the meadow, but few see the flowers in it”

“How does the meadow-flower its bloom unfold?Because the lovely little flower is freeDown to its root, and in that freedom bold.”

“This life of ours...human life is like a flower gloriously blooming in a meadow: along comes a goat, eats it up---no more flower.”

“A painting is more than the sum of the parts,” he would tell me, and then go on to explain how the cow itself is just a cow, and the meadow by itself is just grass and flowers, and the sun peeking through the trees is just a beam of light, but put them all together and you’ve got magic.”

“Candleford Green was but a small village and there were fields and meadows and woods all around it. As soon as Laura crossed the doorstep, she could see some of these. But mere seeing from a distance did not satisfy her; she longed to go alone far into the fields and hear the birds singing, the brooks tinkling, and the wind rustling through the corn, as she had when a child. To smell things and touch things, warm earth and flowers and grasses, and to stand and gaze where no one could see her, drinking it all in.”

“Flowers alternate with her eyes as we journey through these prodigal catacombs”