Canberra has been blustery and cold. Full winter regalia is now de rigeur, boots, scarves and my rather luscious coat that I bought in Rome a few years ago. That also means that the roses are now at their very last. When I was at Old Parliament House on Sunday, there were a few blooms still hanging on bravely. My own roses, so newly planted, have been sleeping for some time.
That means rose related pleasures must be found elsewhere, like in books and catalogues. I’ve resisted the catalogues so far, that is, resisted spending money. I spent money on two new/old books yesterday, at one of Canberra’s wonderful bookshops.
One was a hefty tome filled with the most glorious plates of rose renderings. The second was an anthology and I’d like to share this. It’s a short poem by Thomas Moore.
Bring the bright garlands hither,
Ere yet a leaf is dying;
If so soon they must wither,
Ours be their last sweet sighing.
Hark, that low dismal chime!
‘Tis the dreary voice of Time.
Oh, bring Beaty, bring roses,
Bring all that yet is ours,
Let life’s day, as it closes,
Shine to the last thro’ flowers.