Monday, April 21, 2008

Spanish Bluebell



Spanish Bluebell, Hyacinthoides hispanica, (also referred to as Wood Hyacinth) grows to 18 inches, taller than English bluebell and the flowers are powder blue, pink or white. It blooms later too, and will grow in sun or shade. If you live in a hot climate, choose a shady location. They make a nice transitional flower, after the early spring bulbs, but before the perennials. It's hardy even for Zone 3, and can be grown in warm climates too. Spanish bluebell will tolerate drought much better than English bluebells, which do better in moist areas. Mixing the three color varieties at the edge of a shady area, where they will still receive sun is a nice location. They are also lovely in the middle of a border. Brenda Hyde

    My Garden

      IF I could put my woods in song
      And tell what's there enjoyed,
      All men would to my gardens throng,
      And leave the cities void.

      In my plot no tulips blow,--
      Snow-loving pines and oaks instead;
      And rank the savage maples grow
      From Spring's faint flush to Autumn red.

      My garden is a forest ledge
      Which older forests bound;
      The banks slope down to the blue lake-edge,
      Then plunge to depths profound.

      Here once the Deluge ploughed,
      Laid the terraces, one by one;
      Ebbing later whence it flowed,
      They bleach and dry in the sun.

      The sowers made haste to depart,--
      The wind and the birds which sowed it;
      Not for fame, nor by rules of art,
      Planted these, and tempests flowed it.

      Waters that wash my garden-side
      Play not in Nature's lawful web,
      They heed not moon or solar tide,--
      Five years elapse from flood to ebb.

      Hither hasted, in old time, Jove,
      And every god,--none did refuse;
      And be sure at last came Love,
      And after Love, the Muse.

      Keen ears can catch a syllable,
      As if one spake to another,
      In the hemlocks tall, untamable,
      And what the whispering grasses smother.

      ├ćolian harps in the pine
      Ring with the song of the Fates;
      Infant Bacchus in the vine,--
      Far distant yet his chorus waits.

      Canst thou copy in verse one chime
      Of the wood-bell's peal and cry,
      Write in a book the morning's prime,
      Or match with words that tender sky?

      Wonderful verse of the gods,
      Of one import, of varied tone;
      They chant the bliss of their abodes
      To man imprisoned in his own.

      Ever the words of the gods resound;
      But the porches of man's ear
      Seldom in this low life's round
      Are unsealed, that he may hear.

      Wandering voices in the air
      And murmurs in the wold
      Speak what I cannot declare,
      Yet cannot all withhold.

      When the shadow fell on the lake,
      The whirlwind in ripples wrote
      Air-bells of fortune that shine and break,
      And omens above thought.

      But the meanings cleave to the lake,
      Cannot be carried in book or urn;
      Go thy ways now, come later back,
      On waves and hedges still they burn.

      These the fates of men forecast,
      Of better men than live to-day;
      If who can read them comes at last
      He will spell in the sculpture,'Stay.'

      Ralph Waldo Emerson

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