“Gather Ye Rosebuds” by John William Waterhouse 1849-1917

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Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
Old time is still a-flying,
And the same flower that smiles today
Tomorrow will be dying. (Robert Herrick)

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“To Daffodils” by Robert Herrick 1591-1674

Fair Daffodils, we weep to see
You haste away so soon;
As yet the early-rising Sun
Has not attained his noon.
Stay, stay
Until the hasting day
Has run
But to the even-song;
And, having prayed together, we
Will go with you along.

We have short time to stay, as you,
We have as short a Spring;
As quick a growth to meet decay
As you, or any thing.
We die,
As your hours do, and dry
Away
Like to the Summer’s rain;
Or as the pearls of morning’s dew,
Ne’er to be found again.

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As a white candle
In a holy place
So is the beauty
Of an aged face.
As the spent radiance
Of the winter sun,
So is a woman
With her travail done,
Her brood gone from her,
And her thoughts as still
As the waters
Under a ruined mill.
(Joseph Campbell 1879-1944, Irish poet also known as Seosamh MacCathmhaoil)

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Father Time is not always a hard parent, and, though he tarries for none of his children, often lays his hand lightly upon those who have used him well; making them old men and women inexorably enough, but leaving their hearts and spirits young and in full vigour. With such people the grey head is but the impression of the old fellow's hand in giving them his blessing, and every wrinkle but a notch in the quiet calendar of a well-spent life. (Charles Dickens 1812-1870)

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The music is "Elizabethan Serenade" by Ronald Binge



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“La Donna Velata” by Raphael (1483-1520)

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The first time ever I saw your face
I thought the sun rose in your eyes
And the moon and stars were the gifts you gave
To the dark and the empty skies, my love,
To the dark and the empty skies. (Ewen McColl 1915-1989)

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You'll love me yet and I can tarry
Your love's protracted growing:
June reared that bunch of flowers you carry
From seeds of April's sowing.

I plant a heartful now: some seed
At least is sure to strike,
And yield what you'll not pluck indeed,
Not love, but, may be, like!

You'll look at least on love's remains,
A grave's one violet:
Your look? that pays a thousand pains.
What's death? You'll love me yet!  (Robert Browning 1812-1889)

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“View of Laerdalsaren on the Sognefiord” by Themistokles von Eckenbrecher (1842-1921)

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Gone were but the Winter,
Come were but the Spring,
I would go to a covert
Where the birds sing;

Where in the whitethorn
Singeth a thrush,
And a robin sings
In the holly-bush.

Full of fresh scents
Are the budding boughs
Arching high over
A cool greenhouse;

Full of sweet scents
And whispering air
Which sayeth softly:
“We spread no snare;

“Here dwell in safety,
Here dwell alone,
With a clear stream
And a mossy stone.

“Here the sun shineth
Most shadily;
Here is heard an echo
Of the far sea,
Though far off it be.” (Christina Georgina Rossetti 1830-1894)

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“Spring in Norway” is the title of this slide show. The music is “Spring” by Edvard Grieg (1843-1907) played by the Oslo Camerata.





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And Spring arose on the garden fair,
Like the Spirit of Love felt everywhere;
And each flower and herb on Earth's dark breast
Rose from the dreams of its wintry rest. (Percy Bysshe Shelley 1792-1822)

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How fair is a garden amidst the trials and passions of existence (Benjamin Disraeli)

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This is an extract from “Of Gardens,” an essay by Francis Bacon (1561-1626)

And because the breath of flowers is far sweeter in the air (where it comes and goes, like the warbling of music), than in the hand, therefore nothing is more fit for that delight, than to know what be the flowers and plants that do best perfume the air.

That which, above all others, yields the sweetest smell in the air, is the Violet, especially the white double Violet, which comes twice a year, about the middle of April, and about Bartholomew-tide. Next to that is the Musk-Rose; then the Strawberry leaves dying, with a most excellent cordial smell; then the flower of the Vines, it is a little dust like the dust of a Bent, which grows upon the cluster in the first coming forth; then Sweet-Briar, then Wallflowers, which are very delightful to be set under a Parlour or lower chamber window; then Pinks and Gillyflowers, specially the matted Pink and Clove Gillyflower; then the flowers of the Lime-tree; then the Honeysuckles, so they be somewhat afar off.

Of Bean-flowers I speak not, because they are field-flowers; but those which perfume the air most delightfully, not passed by as the rest, but being trodden upon and crushed, are three; that is, Burnet, Wild Thyme, and Water-Mints; therefore you are to set whole alleys of them, to have the pleasure when you walk or tread.

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“Flowering garden at Sainte-Adresse” by Claude Monet (1840-1926)

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Finally, a brief look at Monet’s garden at Giverny.



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“I am half-sick of shadows, said the Lady of Shalott”

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There she weaves by night and day
A magic web with colours gay,
She has heard a whisper say,
A curse is on her if she stay
To look down to Camelot.
She knows not what the curse may be,
And so she weaveth steadily,
And little other care hath she,
The Lady of Shalott.

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“The Lady of Shalott”

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And down the river’s dim expanse -
Like some bold seer in a trance,
Seeing all his own mischance -
With a glassy countenance
Did she look to Camelot.
And at the closing of the day
She loosed the chain, and down she lay;
The broad stream bore her far away,
The Lady of Shalott.

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Both those paintings are by John William Waterhouse (1849-1917) and the verses are from “The Lady of Shalott” by Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809-1892).

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This is an interesting slide show of sketches and drawings by Waterhouse.




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If we had no winter, the spring would not be so pleasant: if we did not sometimes taste of adversity, prosperity would not be so welcome. (Anne Bradstreet 1612-1672)

Yesterday the twig was brown and bare;
To-day the glint of green is there;
Tomorrow will be leaflets spare;
I know no thing so wondrous fair,
No miracle so strangely rare.
I wonder what will next be there!   (L. H. Bailey 1858-1954)

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“Spring Morning” by the English painter William Joseph Bond 1833-1926

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The Spring comes in with all her hues and smells,
In freshness breathing over hills and dells;
O’er woods where May her gorgeous drapery flings,
And meads washed fragrant by their laughing springs.
Fresh are new opened flowers, untouched and free
From the bold rifling of the amorous bee.
The happy time of singing birds is come,
And Love’s lone pilgrimage now finds a home;
Among the mossy oaks now coos the dove,
And the hoarse crow finds softer notes for love.
The foxes play around their dens, and bark
In joy’s excess, ‘mid woodland shadows dark.
The flowers join lips below; the leaves above;
And every sound that meets the ear is Love. (John Clare 1793-1864)

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I‘m delighted to have discovered this YouTube item - “It was a lover and his lass” played and sung by an Early Music Ensemble from Belgrade called “Flauto Dolce.”



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This week at EIGHTY PLUS FOUR (an octogenarian looks back) I look back to the 19th century when many Scots set off for the unknown to begin new lives in America.

http://80plus4.blogspot.com

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