THANK YOU FOR THE RAIN THAT MAKES THE GARDEN GROW

We've been seeing two days of this...... I wont complain because it leads to.......


donning these......

..in order to lend a helping hand to Mother Nature, to be blessed with results like this.

The Glory of the Garden

Our England is a garden that is full of stately views,
Of borders, beds and shrubberies and lawns and avenues,
With statues on the terraces and peacocks strutting by;
But the Glory of the Garden lies in more than meets the eye.

For where the old thick laurels grow, along the thin red wall,
You will find the tool- and potting-sheds which are the heart of all ;
The cold-frames and the hot-houses, the dungpits and the tanks:
The rollers, carts and drain-pipes, with the barrows and the planks.

And there you'll see the gardeners, the men and 'prentice boys
Told off to do as they are bid and do it without noise;
For, except when seeds are planted and we shout to scare the birds,
The Glory of the Garden it abideth not in words.

And some can pot begonias and some can bud a rose,
And some are hardly fit to trust with anything that grows;
But they can roll and trim the lawns and sift the sand and loam,
For the Glory of the Garden occupieth all who come.

Our England is a garden, and such gardens are not made
By singing:--"Oh, how beautiful!" and sitting in the shade,
While better men than we go out and start their working lives
At grubbing weeds from gravel-paths with broken dinner-knives

There's not a pair of legs so thin, there's not a head so thick,
There's not a hand so weak and white, nor yet a heart so sick.
But it can find some needful job that's crying to be done,
For the Glory of the Garden glorifieth every one.

Then seek your job with thankfulness and work till further orders,
If it's only netting strawberries or killing slugs on borders;
And when your back stops aching and your hands begin to harden,
You will find yourself a partner in the Glory of the Garden.

Oh, Adam was a gardener, and God who made him sees
That half a proper gardener's work is done upon his knees,
So when your work is finished, you can wash your hand and pray
For the Glory of the Garden, that it may not pass away!
And the Glory of the Garden it shall never pass away!

Rudyard Kipling.....

I raise a cuppa Earl Grey to all the fellow gardeners who frequent the tea society!

REST IN PEACE NATASHA RICHARDSON 11 May 1963 – 18 March 2009

God bless the family and and friends of such a talented lady. The world is mourning with you.

Remember
Remember me when I am gone away,
Gone far away into the silent land:
When you can no more hold me by the hand,
Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay.
Remember me when no more day by day
You tell me of our future that you planned:
Only remember me; you understand
It will be late to counsel then or pray.
Yet if you should forget me for a while
And afterwards remember, do not grieve:
For if the darkness and corruption leave
A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,
Better by far you should forget and smile
Than that you should remember and be sad.

Christina Rossetti
1830-1894

BACK TO THE SECRET GARDEN


Lately, so many posts throughout the blogosphere have dealt with spring and gardening. Since my mind has been dwelling on the same topics, I thought it fitting yesterday to watch a charming little film called "Back to the Secret Garden." My son just read Frances Hodgson Burnett's original novel, which has inspired me to do the same. However, I discovered that Netflix offered this sequel to "The Secret Garden", and upon further discovery that the lovely Joan Plowright had a starring role in the film, I knew it would be worth a watch.

The film was certainly enchanting, though it could never compare with the original story of Mary, Colin, and Dickon. My 11 year old son really enjoyed this movie sequel, and I must say that there were some lovely moments in the film. It is a great film for the entire family, especially if you love gardening:-)...Oh, to be at Misselthwaite!

Below is a review of the film:

Although Frances Hodgson Burnett did not feel the need to write a sequel to her classic fantasy novel The Secret Garden, this did not prevent producer Norman Rosemont from commissioning just such a sequel. Set in 1946, Back to the Secret Garden finds Mary Lennox, the youthful heroine of the original novel, all grown up and far removed from her beloved enchanted garden in Yorkshire's Missletwaite Manor. Now living in New York, Mary comes in contact with Lizzie (Camilla Belle), a feisty Brooklyn-born orphan. It is Lizzie who tries to save the day by heading off to England and endeavoring to save Mary's secret garden, which has been literally dying in its caregiver's absence. Joan Plowright, George Baker, Cherie Lunghi, and Leigh Lawson co-star in this German-British co-production, which was originally intended for theatrical release. The American premiere of Back to the Secret Garden appeared on the Showtime Cable Network on September 2, 2001 -- nearly two years after the film's completion. ~ Hal Erickson, All Movie Guide

NEARING LILAC TIME

( my old fashioned lilac from last year)

Yesterday morning, as we returned home from church, we walked up the steps to our porch where we have a view of our side cottage garden. My sweet, soon to be 11 year old son, happily proclaimed, "Mom, look! The robins are in the garden and everything is bursting out of the ground!" I floated on that comment all day as it filled me with such anticipation for the new growing season.

This year, my lilacs are later than usual. I attribute that to the last ice storm that stunted the spring garden. I am thankful, though, that the garden blooming time seems to have returned to the norm this year, as recently, the garden has awakened entirely too early only to be halted by late freezing weather. I pray that this prolonged dormancy will contribute to longer enjoyment of the jonquils, tulips, lilac and wisteria...Welcome spring!

Warble for Lilac-Time

WARBLE me now, for joy of Lilac-time,
Sort me, O tongue and lips, for Nature’s sake, and sweet life’s sake—and death’s the same as life’s,
Souvenirs of earliest summer—birds’ eggs, and the first berries;
Gather the welcome signs, (as children, with pebbles, or stringing shells;)
Put in April and May—the hylas croaking in the ponds—the elastic air,
Bees, butterflies, the sparrow with its simple notes,
Blue-bird, and darting swallow—nor forget the high-hole flashing his golden wings,
The tranquil sunny haze, the clinging smoke, the vapor,
Spiritual, airy insects, humming on gossamer wings,
Shimmer of waters, with fish in them—the cerulean above;
All that is jocund and sparkling—the brooks running,
The maple woods, the crisp February days, and the sugar-making;
The robin, where he hops, bright-eyed, brown-breasted,
With musical clear call at sunrise, and again at sunset,
Or flitting among the trees of the apple-orchard, building the nest of his mate;

The melted snow of March—the willow sending forth its yellow-green sprouts;
—For spring-time is here! the summer is here! and what is this in it and from it?
Thou, Soul, unloosen’d—the restlessness after I know not what;
Come! let us lag here no longer—let us be up and away!
O for another world! O if one could but fly like a bird! 20
O to escape—to sail forth, as in a ship!
To glide with thee, O Soul, o’er all, in all, as a ship o’er the waters!
—Gathering these hints, these preludes—the blue sky, the grass, the morning drops of dew;
(With additional songs—every spring will I now strike up additional songs,
Nor ever again forget, these tender days, the chants of Death as well as Life;)
The lilac-scent, the bushes, and the dark green, heart-shaped leaves,
Wood violets, the little delicate pale blossoms called innocence,
Samples and sorts not for themselves alone, but for their atmosphere,
To tally, drench’d with them, tested by them,
Cities and artificial life, and all their sights and scenes,
My mind henceforth, and all its meditations—my recitatives,
My land, my age, my race, for once to serve in songs,
(Sprouts, tokens ever of death indeed the same as life,)
To grace the bush I love—to sing with the birds,
A warble for joy of Lilac-time.

Walt Whitman (1819-1892)