“Ode to the fresh Spring rose”: countless Romantic platitudes have begun with a similar phrase, and rightly as their gentle beauty surpasses all the in garden.
The rose harkens us to a simpler time, of Jane Austen-like picnics where gents would read Byron to their ladies fair, where strawberry picking in long white dresses was an amiable way to pass the afternoon. As a woman of leisure myself this Summer, I find that I too curl up with a book amid the roses–not quite attired in a flowing gown but instead with yoga pants and a wide-brimmed hat.
Hmmm . . . I think I’m off to the garden . . .