May is Gifts from the Garden Month. People all around the world will be celebrating with flower festivals featuring the many beautiful blooms of spring.
Flower gardens provide us with a literal feast for the senses with their vibrant colors, and soft, sweet-smelling aromas. The sounds of birds chirping and bees buzzing that often accompany flower gardens signal the start of a fresh, new season.
Too busy to stop and the smell rhododendrons? No problem. Let Day-Timer help you celebrate this month with our Garden Path Collection featuring dated pages and accessories which allow you to plan your day while you enjoy a daily bouquet that will soothe your senses and brighten your spirit by bringing you back to the English gardens of yesteryear with it’s inspiring floral imagery.
I’ll leave you with arguably, one of the most revered garden poems ever written in the English language, The Garden, by Andrew Marvell. Take it easy this month and keep in mind that learning about and enjoying nature will stimulate your imagination, intellect, and may even help you keep your sense of humor intact and ready for whatever change may come during the many seasons of your life.
By Andrew Marvell
How vainly men themselves amaze
To win the palm, the oak, or bays,
And their incessant labours see
Crowned from some single herb or tree,
Whose short and narrow-verged shade
Does prudently their toils upbraid;
While all the flowers and trees do close
To weave the garlands of repose!
Fair Quiet, have I found thee here,
And Innocence thy sister dear?
Mistaken long, I sought you then
In busy companies of men.
Your sacred plants, if here below,
Only among the plants will grow.
Society is all but rude
To this delicious solitude:
No white nor red was ever seen
So am’rous as this lovely green.
Fond lovers, cruel as their flame,
Cut in these trees their mistress’ name.
Little, alas, they know or heed
How far these beauties hers exceed!
Fair trees! where s’e’er your barks I wound,
No name shall but your own be found.
When we have run our passion’s heat
Love hither makes his best retreat.
The gods, that mortal beauty chase,
Still in a tree did end their race:
Apollo hunted Daphne so,
Only that she might laurel grow;
And Pan did after Syrinx speed,
Not as a nymph, but for a reed.
What wondrous life is this I lead!
Ripe apples drop about my head;
The luscious clusters of the vine
Upon my mouth do crush their wine;
The nectarine, and curious peach,
Into my hands themselves do reach;
Stumbling on melons, as I pass,
Ensnared with flow’rs, I fall on grass.
Meanwhile the mind, from pleasure less,
Withdraws into its happiness –
The mind, that ocean where each kind
Does straight its own resemblance find;
Yet it creates, transcending these,
Far other worlds, and other seas;
Annihilating all that’s made
To a green thought in a green shade.
Here at the fountain’s sliding foot,
Or at some fruit-tree’s mossy root,
Casting the body’s vest aside,
My soul into the boughs does glide:
There like a bird it sits and sings,
Then whets and combs its silver wings,
And, till prepared for longer flight,
Waves in its plumes the various light.
Such was that happy garden-state,
While man there walked without a mate:
After a place so pure and sweet,
What other help could yet be meet!
But ’twas beyond a mortal’s share
To wander solitary there:
Two paradises ’twere in one
To live in Paradise alone.
How well the skilful gardener drew
Of flow’rs and herbs this dial new;
Where from above the milder sun
Does through a fragrant zodiac run;
And, as it works, th’ industrious bee
Computes its time as well as we.
How could such sweet and wholesome hours
Be reckoned but with herbs and flow’rs!