Perhaps I've lived in dry, hot environments so long that the poem didn't seem so melancholy to me, just a recognition of life not being so easy even if you are a bird or plant in the heat of August. The part about the orchards was a reminder to stay focused on the sweet rewards of my labor amidst this place and that they don't come easy. Harvestman: water is such a dominating factor both in quantity and quality, so easy it is to forget and a pain to deal with at times. My present conundrum is with high bicarbonates which over time are leading to micro deficiencies. Yep, the addition of composted manure and organic mulches have begun, S additions too, soon. If I'm lucky, those will be enough or it will likely come down to acid injection in the irrigation water, not something I am technically prepared to do yet.

Buford, I agree with you 100% about Duchesse de Brabant. Why on earth did I wait so long to buy this rose! I wanted it for years, but never actually laid the money down until earlier this spring. This is a very special rose, not for everyone because of the uniqueness of her habit ... people will love her or hate her. Count me as one of the ones who LOVES her! She is the epitome of "the old rose" to me. Randy

Autumn is my very favorite time of year. I don't think I could bear to live anywhere but New England simply because of the fall colors and the inexplicable quality of the autumn air. These are two poems that have been posted here in past years that I liked very much. October by Paul Laurence Dunbar OCTOBER is the treasurer of the year, And all the months pay bounty to her store: The fields and orchards still their tribute bear, And fill her brimming coffers more and more. But she, with youthful lavishness, Spends all her wealth in gaudy dress, And decks herself in garments bold Of scarlet, purple, red, and gold. She heedeth not how swift the hours fly, But smiles and sings her happy life along; She only sees above a shining sky; She only hears the breezes' voice in song. Her garments trail the woodland through, And gather pearls of early dew That sparkle till the roguish Sun Creeps up and steals them every one. But what cares she that jewels should be lost, When all of Nature's bounteous wealth is hers? Though princely fortunes may have been their cost, Not one regret her calm demeanor stirs. Whole-hearted, happy, careless, free, She lives her life out joyously, Nor cares when Frost stalks o'er her way And turns her auburn locks to gray. "God's World" Edna St. Vincent Millay O WORLD, I cannot hold thee close enough! Thy winds, thy wide grey skies! Thy mists, that roll and rise! Thy woods, this autumn day, that ache and sag And all but cry with colour! That gaunt crag To crush! To lift the lean of that black bluff! World, World, I cannot get thee close enough! Long have I known a glory in it all, But never knew I this; Here such a passion is As stretcheth me apart,ÂLord, I do fear ThouÂst made the world too beautiful this year; My soul is all but out of me,Âlet fall No burning leaf; prithee, let no bird call.

Cece, yes, I've thought that the story needs opening up and writing. But I think the poem was written in around the 1890s. So what were they doing, in Victorian times, meeting in presumably a private room if not a bedroom, at an inn, when 'never the lovelight shone between us two' etc.? I agree, it might make a fascinating tale. Annpan, I never learned it - I just had to teach Hardy's poetry for A-level (18 year-olds) and poems stick with me. I used to be able to recite reams more than I can now. But you may have hit on something: a sequence of his poems was written after the death of his first wife, called 'Veteris Vestigia Flammae' where his memories of their early years together, particularly their courtship, haunt him despairingly - though they had been almost estranged for a long time in later years. My ex-husband died about 18 months ago and it was a great shock to everyone - not expected at all. He and I remained very good friends, so I was very cut up about it. I go to visit his grave every so often, and I always recite one of those poems of Hardy as I stand there - 'Things were not lastly as firstly well between us twain, you tell? 'But all's past now, despite Time's derision.' ........................... It ends: '....... I mind not, thought life lours. 'The bringing me here - nay, bring me here again - For I am just the same 'As when our days were a joy and our paths through flowers.' Could be all tied up, I suppose. I've tried reciting it out loud; and I've tried reciting other poems. And yes, it's very like having a tune that you can't get out of your head. Mary, I think the Hopkins you mention is another that has haunting potential. I've found myself reciting it sometimes, for no reason....It's beautiful. Thanks, all, so much for joining in and making suggestions. It's still waking me at nights..... Dido