She wondered which wounds went deeper: the jagged wounds of reality, or the profound invisible bruises of the imagination? - Vita Sackville-West

I always preferre the works of God to the works of man. The works of God, I always felt, were given freely to anyone who could appreciate them, whether millionair or pauper, wheras the works of man were reserved for the millionaires. Unless, indeed, the works of man were sufficient to the man who made them; then, it wouldn't matter what millionaire bought them in after years.

She walks among the loveliness she made, Between the apple-blossom and the water— She walks among the patterned pied brocade, Each flower her son, and every tree her daughter.

I saw within the wheelwright’s shed The big round cartwheels, blue and red; A plough with blunted share; A blue tin jug; a broken chair; And paint in trial patchwork square Slapping up against the wall; The lumber of the wheelwright’s trade, And tools on benches neatly laid, The brace, the adze, the awl;