Come Into the Garden, Maude

5/28/2012

   I haven’t been thinking much about what’s inside the house these days, I’ve been too enthralled by the garden outside-- weeding and mulching, moving plants and shrubs around the way people rearrange living rooms, sitting watching the fish or wandering around. I’ve set up a special garden to try and attract hummingbirds (last chance, you little ingrates), and put down a new floor in the garden room. We sleep there now, drifting off to the soft splash of the pond. The rest of the house feels unnecessary.

             Who wants to think about decluttering in May?

   This is the perfect month to give yourself a break from worrying about the clothes in your closet that haven’t been worn for years, the papers stashed in cartons needing attention, the knickknacks you’ve been meaning to make decisions about. They aren’t going anywhere.   On the other hand, the sun might.

   Life is too short not to stop and prune the roses.

donna leff

5/27/2012 08:55:46 pm

It's was 5:30 AM and I was basking in moist air and the birth of my baby morning glory tendrils on the balcony. I thinned the marigold seedlings which feels like murder and stared at yesterdays sown daisies magically willing them to appear overnight. The birds are crazy busy and the appropriate sound effects to the impressionist clouds and the hint of sun on the house across the parking lot. I love May, too. Donna L.

judi culbertson

5/27/2012 09:10:16 pm

I love your balcony with all its beautiful flowers. What a beautiful image of you sitting there loving it in the freshness of dawn!

Tom

6/3/2012 10:19:13 pm

Here is the poem, "Come Into the Garden, Maud", by Alfred Lord Tennyson and beneath is the link for the great John McCormack singing an abridged version of the poem.

Come Into the Garde, Maud

Come into the garden, Maud,
For the black bat, Night, has flown,
Come into the garden, Maud,
I am here at the gate alone;
And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad,
And the musk of the roses blown.

For a breeze of morning moves,
And the planet of Love is on high,
Beginning to faint in the light that she loves
On a bed of daffodil sky,
To faint in the light of the sun she loves,
To faint in his light, and to die.

All night have the roses heard
The flute, violin, bassoon;
All night has the casement jessamine stirr'd
To the dancers dancing in tune:
Till a silence fell with the waking bird,
And a hush with the setting moon.

I said to the lily, "There is but one
With whom she has heart to be gay.
When will the dancers leave her alone?
She is weary of dance and play."
Now half to the setting moon are gone,
And half to the rising day;
Low on the sand and loud on the stone
The last wheel echoes away.

I said to the rose, "The brief night goes
In babble and revel and wine.
O young lordlover, what sighs are those
For one that will never be thine?
But mine, but mine," so I sware to the rose,
"For ever and ever, mine."

And the soul of the rose went into my blood,
As the music clash'd in the hall;
And long by the garden lake I stood,
For I heard your rivulet fall
From the lake to the meadow and on to the wood,
Our wood, that is dearer than all;

From the meadow your walks have left so sweet
That whenever a March-wind sighs
He sets the jewelprint of your feet
In violets blue as your eyes,
To the woody hollows in which we meet
And the valleys of Paradise.

The slender acacia would not shake
One long milk-bloom on the tree;
The white lake-blossom fell into the lake,
As the pimpernel dozed on the lea;
But the rose was awake all night for your sake,
Knowing your promise to me;
The lilies and roses were all awake,
They sigh'd for the dawn and thee.

Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls,
Come hither, the dances are done,
In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls,
Queen lily and rose in one;
Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls,
To the flowers, and be their sun.

There has fallen a splendid tear
From the passion-flower at the gate.
She is coming, my dove, my dear;
She is coming, my life, my fate;
The red rose cries, "She is near, she is near;"
And the white rose weeps, "She is late;"
The larkspur listens, "I hear, I hear;"
And the lily whispers, "I wait."

She is coming, my own, my sweet;
Were it ever so airy a tread,
My heart would hear her and beat,
Were it earth in an earthy bed;
My dust would hear her and beat,
Had I lain for a century dead;
Would start and tremble under her feet,
And blossom in purple and red.

Alfred Lord Tennyson

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0-rv4YiTg8U

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