She comes not when Noon is on the roses --
Too Bright is Day.
She comes not to the soul till it reposes
From work and play.
But when Night is on the hills, and the great Voices
Roll in from the sea
By starlight and by candlelight and dreamlight
She comes to me.

Herbert Trench

- from the opening page of A Month in the Country

We mourn the passing of Natasha Richardson

Play an old song (The Rose of Tralee) by clicking HERE

And here for Roses of Picardy (the song Kathy Ellerbeck plays on her Victrola)

And To A Wild Rose (Macdowell)

"So this is where you spy on us during summer services," she said, poking her head past my baluster and looking down.


I told her that she had been safe; I'd only been able to see her hat. "The light straw one," I said. "That's my favorite. Particularly when you stick a rose in the ribbon."

"Sara Van Fleet," she said. It was a pink rose, a single. "It's an old variety. Mind! It has sharp thorns. And it keeps on blooming.. You'll see. There'll be some right into autumn.." She smiled. "Even if you don't visit us again, you'll know -- I usually wear one in my hat -- Here, take one."

"That rose, Sara Van Fleet...I still have it. Pressed in a book."
(His architectural bible, his Bannister-Fletcher.)

Pressing the rose

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Color pictures on this page thanks to Vicki, Meluchie & Sharon