|Early evening on the allotment with my Columbine|
Till I forget that I am called a man,
And at thy side fast-rooted seem to be,
And the breeze comes my cheek with thine to fan.
Upon this craggy hill our life shall pass,
A life of summer days and summer joys,
Nodding our honey-bells mid pliant grass
In which the bee half hid his time employs;
And here we'll drink with thirsty pores the rain,
And turn dew-sprinkled to the rising sun,
And look when in the flaming west again
His orb across the heaven its path has run;
Here left in darkness on the rocky steep,
My weary eyes shall close like folding flowers in sleep.
Jones Very (1813-1880)
Until recently these honey-bells were 'mid pliant grass' until I freed them to stand tall with my raspberry canes up at the allotment. I've no idea where they came from: they appeared the first year I had my plot, so I don't know whether they are the result of a deliberate act by one of my predecessors or if they self-seeded themselves from elsewhere. I love this white one above all the others which appear at this time of the year.
One year I'll remember to collect some seeds and add them to the Aquilegias I have in my garden. Or would that detract from the special feeling I have for them when I see them up at the plot?
Garden Bloggers' Muse Day is hosted by Carolyn Choi at Sweet Home and Garden Chicago.