Her heart was at home among flowers, as if itself were a flower.Perfect for my wife, a horticulturist.
She named them all by their names, or out of her love for them gave them new and more beautiful ones, she knew exactly which was the happiest season for each of them.
Like a sister when a dear brother or sister comes running to her from every corner, and each would be greeted first, so was her quiet being busy with hand and eye, blissfully distracted, when we walked to the meadows or the woods.
And all this was so utterly unaffected and uncalculated in her, it was so much a part of her own growth.
It is eternally true, it is visible everywhere: the more innocent, the more beautiful a soul is, the more familiarly will it live with those other happy beings to which men deny souls.
from Hyperion by Hölderlin