The title is from a moderately twee poem by Thomas Edward Brown entitled "My Garden," which I know because I looked it up to make sure I had the line right. But I actually encountered the line first in Ian Fleming's You Only Live Twice, where the bad guy (Blofeld, IIRC) has created a garden of death to attract suicides, and James Bond makes a comment about his garden not being a lovesome thing.

I'm not a gardener, but I have friends who are, and they're the ones who taught me about volunteer trees. The landscaper said she blames rabbit poop for a lot of them. And I certainly have rabbits. Enough for hassenpfeffer, if I could do anything about them. And of course, most oak trees are the result of acorn caches abandoned by amnesiac squirrels. (I love the phrase "amnesiac squirrels.")