Tag Archives: flowers

Amaranthus: Lycidas

And every flower that sad embroidery wears:
Bid Amaranthus all his beauty shed.

— John Milton, “Lycidas“. 148-149.

Otto Wilhelm Thomé Flora von Deutschland, Österreich und der Schweiz 1885, Gera, Germany

The amarant provides a good study of the-roster-or-the-chicken-or-the-egg problem in language. What came first? The myth, the metaphor, or the word? I speculate that the word, amarant, did not come first, but perhaps it came second. With its roots in Greek, the word means not-fading, incorruptible, or (as is said of many plants with long-lasting floral displays) “everlasting.” The modern, widely distributed genus, Amaranthus, is indeed an “everlasting” flower–although not truly “incorruptible,” it is also a vegetable and a pseudograin, but these facts are less to the point.

Amarant appears in two very old, very well-known texts. First, in Aesop’s fables (The rose and the amaranth, 6 BC) and later in the New Testament–although, as a word and not as a plant (1 Peter 5:4, about 100 AD, give or take a few decades). In both cases, the word refers to an everlasting, floral display of beauty. In Aesop, it possesses a persona and so begins its journey as myth; in the New Testament it serves metaphorically, but waits for Clement of Alexandria and others (like Milton) to plant it firmly in soil of Christian symbol and allegory. Having encountered its literary type long before finding the plant in a garden (if ever), many editors and annotators assume that the plant was first imagined and later given as a name to the genus. While it is true that Aesop precedes all Linnaean names for plants, I found no evidence to disprove that Aesop may have known an actual plant (possibly an amarant) which he contrasted favorably with the fading rose. After all, no one suggests that Aesop did not mean the rose of genus Rosa–i.e., no one would propose that Aesop meant an imaginary plant for great beauty that he just happened to name “rose.” Why should we not assume that Aesop had an amarant somewhere in gardens of his daily life? It is for this reason that I would guess that somewhere, many, many years before Aesop, people saw a plant, realized that its flowers were long-lasting, and named it “amarant.” Thus, the metaphor would have been first (this plant is like something that never fades), and the word second (let’s call it “amarant”) and the myth third (so, there’s this plant which is named “amarant,” and long, long ago in fable-land the amarant said to the rose …).

Milton muddles the matter with an inventive conceit in his great poem:

                                                                          [L]owly reverent
Towards either Throne they bow, and to the ground
With solemn adoration down they cast
Thir Crowns inwove with Amarant and Gold,
Immortal Amarant, a Flour which once
In Paradise, fast by the Tree of Life
Began to bloom, but soon for mans offence
To Heav’n remov’d where first it grew, there grows,
And flours aloft shading the Fount of Life,
And where the river of Bliss through midst of Heavn
Rowls o’re Elisian Flours her Amber stream;
With these that never fade the Spirits elect
Bind thir resplendent locks inwreath’d with beams. —Paradise Lost, III:349-61.

Russell M. Hillier makes a good case for the influence of Clement of Alexandria’s Paedogogus on this passage of Milton’s most famous poem. Milton places the plant (as does 1 Peter) in heaven; it adorns the crowns of the angels–but he also tells us why the flower is found in heaven and (presumably) not on earth. As it is “incorruptible,” it was transplanted from garden of Eden after the fall of Adam and Eve. In other words, after the fall, the earth was no place for a flower of everlasting beauty. Perhaps Milton knew an Amaranthus plant by a different name, but he does seem to assume that it was first a myth. Were Milton to find the plant in our gardens and whole-food stores, he would assure us that is was wrongly named.

In “Lycidas,” Milton uses the amarant with even less clarity. He calls for the everlasting flower to shed its beauty upon the hearse of his deceased friend, Edward King. Did Milton mean that the flowers would be everlastingly beautiful on the casket, even though departed from the plant? Did Milton intend that the amarant should humble itself at such an event of grief and loss … in other words, foreshadowing the conceit in Paradise Lost–a world without Edward King is no place for an incorruptible beauty? Of the two, the first seems more likely to me. Perhaps Milton hoped to send King to his imagined grave with the ornaments he might use to attire his heavenly crown or perhaps he meant to confirm the deceased’s salvation while also making a gesture toward the young man’s “immortality” in verse.

Whatever the case, I find the amaranth to be an ugly plant–especially the ornamental Love-lies-bleeding. On the plate, however, it is very interesting. The seeds are earthy and sweet, while the greens have just a bit of peppery bite. Last summer a local co-op farm grew a small crop, I hope they expect a larger harvest this year. In all its ugliness, the genus Amaranthus (even spiny pigweed) should out last Milton–a world without Milton would be a dire place; a world without an Amaranthus would be a dead place.

Reference
Hillier, Russell M. 2007. “To Say it with Flowers: Milton’s ‘Immortal Amarant’ Reconsidered (Paradise Lost, III.349–61).” Notes and Queries 54 (4) (December 1): 404 -408.

[Note: This is the eleventh post in a series. See also: The Flowers in Milton’s “Lycidas”, Primrose: Lycidas, Tufted Crow-toe: Lycidas, Pale Jasmine: Lycidas, White Pink: Lycidas, Not Your Freaking Pansy: Lycidas, The Glowing Violet: Lycidas, Musk-rose: Lycidas, Woodbine: Lycidas and Cowslips: Lycidas.]

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Cowslips: Lycidas

“With Cowslips wan that hang the pensive hed,” John Milton, Lycidas. Ln. 147

Masaccio's "The Expulsion from the Garden of Eden"

With the addition of cowslips (Primula veris), Milton’s flower catalog parts from his Shakespearean sources, Oberon and Perdita. It’s not his first departure and (as was the first, the “crow-toe”) it is not an unwelcome one. Oberon’s flowers, which perfume Titania’s bower, include the oxlip (also a Primula). Milton might have used the oxlip, but its form is too close to its other cousin, the primrose. Edward King’s imagined mourners, therefore, would have adorned the casket with two flowers which (from their blooms alone) would have been nearly indistinguishable. Cowslips, on the other hand, are as Milton describes them, pendant, flower heads hung (not unlike the crow-toe) in a way that mirrors our own physical expressions of grief. (The grieved forms and “wan” faces of Adam and Eve in Masaccio’s The Expulsion and in William Blake’s The Expulsion come to mind.) In short, cowslips (which have always been more plentiful than oxlips) are a more fitting flower to be tossed on the dead poet’s hearse.

Curiously, however, Milton’s readers (if not Milton himself) had lost the flower’s baser etymology. The word “cowslip” has nothing to do with cattle slips or lips … nor slips, nor lips of any kind. The cowslip might be better named “cowslop”. Unlike the primrose, which prefers the shade, the cowslip grows in open pasture. Therefore, its gatherers (herbalists and cooks, when out “cowslipping”) would need to traverse paddy strewn fields. Cow manure comes with a lot of moisture (slop) and nutrients (instant mulch) and one might nearly expect to find healthy plants nearby. Fortunately, for Milton, cowslip had lost its slop … but, it would have been an altogether other-world had Milton honored the deceased with a rich pile of crows feet and a heap of manure.

[Note: This is the tenth post in a series. See also: The Flowers in Milton’s “Lycidas”, Primrose: Lycidas, Tufted Crow-toe: Lycidas, Pale Jasmine: Lycidas, White Pink: Lycidas, Not Your Freaking Pansy: Lycidas, The Glowing Violet: Lycidas, Musk-rose: Lycidas and Woodbine: Lycidas.]

Woodbine: Lycidas

“The Musk-rose, and the well attir’d Woodbine” John Milton, Lycidas. Ln. 146.

The flowers of Milton

Jane Elizabeth Giraud. The Flowers of Milton. 1846.

The woodbine might have been well attired and, for a fairy’s bower, well attiring, but it was not well imagined as strewn across Edward King’s laureate hearse. Here, I think, Milton let poetic convention (the weight of an echoed Shakespeare) write a sloppy, unthinking image. Shakespeare, too, is part of the confusion. His “woodbine”, however, is better placed; it grows as it should, vined into a canopy, held aloft by the magical forest, by an unseen trellis, perfuming the stage for Titania’s dreams:

I know a bank where the wild thyme blows,
Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows,
Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine,
With sweet musk-roses and with eglantine:
There sleeps Titania sometime of the night,
Lull’d in these flowers with dances and delight.

(A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Act 2, Scene 1. Lines 254-8)

But is it “honeysuckle” that Shakespeare intends? Two acts later, in the same play, he wrote:

So doth the woodbine the sweet honeysuckle
Gently entwist; the female ivy so
Enrings the barky fingers of the elm.

(Act 2, Scene 1. Lines 41-3)

Many have taken line 41 as evidence that Shakespeare meant two plants–one a woodbine, another a honeysuckle. It seems just as likely to me that the poet was repeating or clarifying his reference to a single plant. In another world he might have written, for example: “the prickly pear, the Opuntia cactus” or “the tiger, the Siberian tiger”. I do not think it matters, here, what specific plant the bard did or did not have in mind. He imagined a vine, one with love-scented flowers hung from the ceiling of this forest boudoir. Nonetheless, I vote for honeysuckle.

Though murkier in his intentions, Milton too may not have needed a specific flower for this line. Any woodbine would rhyme. Furthermore, he probably would have known more than one plant with this name. On this point, McHenry cites the OED when asserting: “Woodbine in Milton’s time basically meant any climbing plant, including ivy” (101). It seems unlikely, however, that Milton was thinking of what it would mean to toss these “well attir’d” vines on his friend’s casket. Whether by “woodbine” he meant honeysuckle, clematis, or convolvulus does not matter. I can hear the tangled mass of foliage slapping down in an awkward woody heap; one that would likely crush the delicate blossoms that preceded it: primrose, crow-toe, jasmine, pink, pansy, violet and musk-rose.

Perhaps Milton too easily applied a well-metered and rhymed woodbine to his elegy. Perhaps readers were meant only to recall the plant’s sweet odor and its weeping habit. In any event, but for the most dogmatic florists, few readers will trip on these well-attired vines, these three feet at the end of one line in a great poem.

Reference

McHenry, James Patrick. 1996. A Milton Herbal. Milton Quarterly 30, no. 2: 45-110.

[Note: This is the ninth post in a series. See also: The Flowers in Milton’s “Lycidas”, Primrose: Lycidas, Tufted Crow-toe: Lycidas, Pale Jasmine: Lycidas, White Pink: Lycidas, Not Your Freaking Pansy: Lycidas, The Glowing Violet: Lycidas and Musk-rose: Lycidas.]

Musk-rose: Lycidas

“The Musk-rose, and the well attir’d Woodbine” – John Milton, Lycidas. Ln. 146.

Rosa arvensis

Redoute, Pierre-Joseph. Rosa arvensis. 1817-1824.

On first finding the musk-rose among the funereal flowers of “Lycidas”, I was ready to object: How is it that the poet would imagine the musk-rose (an autumn flower) in bloom simultaneously with the spring and early summer primroses and pansies? Certainly, I thought, the great poet has succumbed to mere poetic convention. Turning to McHenry’s “A Milton herbal”, I found similar doubts about the poet’s botanical accuracy. While not mentioning the blooming season, McHenry wonders why Milton would think of the musk-rose as a wild plant, native to England. Rosa moschata, he notes, would only have been observed in gardens. Tended with care, the plant would have been unlikely to appear in even the semi-wild hedgerows of southern England. McHenry writes:

The allusion to Orpheus and the mention of the dale in [“Comus”, ln 495], as well Milton’s putting the musk rose and woodbine (honeysuckle, a wild vine) together in [“Lycidas”, ln 146], confirm that Milton thought of the musk rose as a wild plant. (McHenry, 96)

As it turns out, objections of this sort to “Lycidas” are unfair–at least most of the time. (I have a hard time following–or caring for–the critical debate about the poem’s place in pagan-Christian-pastoral cultural transitions. I do not know when Milton fails in that regard, or at least, I do not see it as others have.) In my case, Milton was not his wrong and not my right. The musk-rose in this poem might not have been what we know as the “musk-rose” today, nor even what the botanists knew as R. moschata in Milton’s century … but would that make Milton wrong? A common name is not wrong if it is common, but common to whom?

In this case, we are not reading about Milton’s roses, nor even about Milton’s neighbors’ roses. The musk-rose, like many of the flowers in the catalogue, was borrowed from another poet. Not, this time, from Spenser’s “April Eclogue” (Spenser includes a damask rose, but not a musk), nor from Perdita’s speech in The Winter’s Tale, but from Oberon’s instructions to Puck in A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Here Oberon describes the bower where Titania sleeps:

I know a bank where the wild thyme blows,
Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows,
Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine,
With sweet musk-roses and with eglantine (Act II, Scene 1. Ln. 628-31)

These are Shakespeare’s musk-roses, not Milton’s. The question, then, is not “Did Milton think of these roses as wild?” nor is it “Did Milton choose the wrong rose for the season?”; but rather, it is: “What did Shakespeare have in mind when he included the musk-rose in Titania’s canopy?” The answer, of course, is: “Who will ever know the mind of Shakespeare? No one.” However, the rose-sleuth and garden writer Graham Stuart Thomas looks at the text, compares Shakespeare’s usage with that of his contemporaries, and identifies a likely species for the Elizabethan common-named “musk-rose”; not R. moschata, but Rosa arvensis (221). The “field rose”, or an “Ayrshire rose”, grows wildly (as does “woodbine”, usually called “honeysuckle” these days) and would easily make a suitable, musky, scraggly canopy for Titania; it also blooms throughout the summer. Thomas even argues that the rose bears a scent closer to the true “musk”–derived from the scent glands of a small, male Musk deer (224).

If Thomas is right (given his reputation, I think he has been and will be “right”), Shakespeare did not mis-imagine a garden rose for his scene in the forests of fairy-land … but what did Milton imagine? Perhaps Milton did not recall a sight (nor even an odor, as Sims suggests–the Musk-rose does have a sweet, funereal scent), but rather the echo of Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Although Milton probably saw R. arvensis in hedgerows, it may be the case that he knows the Musk-rose only by second hand. We all write from what we know and what do poets know, if not poetry.

References

McHenry, James Patrick. 1996. A Milton herbal. Milton Quarterly 30, no. 2: 45-110.
Sims, James H. 1971. Perdita’s “Flowers O’ Th’ Spring” and “Vernal Flowers” in Lycidas. Shakespeare Quarterly 22, no. 1 (Winter): 87-90.
Thomas, Graham Stuart. 1994. The Graham Stuart Thomas rose book. Sagapress, Inc./Timber Press, Inc.

[Note: This is the eighth post in a series. See also: The Flowers in Milton’s “Lycidas”, Primrose: Lycidas, Tufted Crow-toe: Lycidas, Pale Jasmine: Lycidas, White Pink: Lycidas, Not Your Freaking Pansy: Lycidas and The Glowing Violet: Lycidas.]

Feed Me

In the last month, at least one small family of goldfinches has moved into the neighborhood. I hear them more often than I see them, but last week I found them feeding on the neighbor’s parched, but fully-seeded Echinacea plants. Two adults and two, completely fledged, adult-sized “chicks”. The adults were busy prying tiny morsels from the densely packed seed heads, but the minors fluttered on nearby stems, crying to be fed. When the adults saw me and took flight, their young followed, begging, airborne over the rooftops. No doubt, all this begging accounts for the fact that I have heard them more often than I have seen them.

Of all the creatures that rear their young, perhaps the birds are the most insistent at pestering for nourishment. Whining puppies are annoying and I’ve seen a few frustrated, tired, nurse mares, but most mammals satiate and move on. Humans whine for food more (and certainly across a greater number of years) than do most mammals. My nearly adult-sized adolescents are still begging. The “what’s for supper” questions begin as soon as we finish the school and work day. The finches, however, are nagged all day long: chick-wee, chick-wee, chick-wee … is so nearly: feed me, feed me, feed me …. I’ve never heard this ruckus in the winter. Sometime soon they must learn to feed themselves.

The coming winter will be both a burden and a season of rest.

American Goldfinch

American Goldfinch. Bob Hines, United States Fish and Wildlife Service. 1974.

In the last month, at least one small family of goldfinches has moved into the neighborhood. I hear them more often than I see them, but last week I found them feeding on the neighbor’s parched, but fully-seeded Echinacea plants. Two adults and two, completely fledged, adult-sized “chicks”. The adults were busy prying tiny morsels from the densely packed seed heads, but the minors fluttered on nearby stems, crying to be fed. When the adults saw me and took flight, their young followed, begging, airborne over the rooftops. No doubt, all this begging accounts for the fact that I have heard them more often than I have seen them.

Of all the creatures that “rear” their young, perhaps the birds are the most insistent at pestering for nourishment. Whining puppies are annoying and I’ve seen a few frustrated, tired, nurse mares, but most mammals satiate and move on. Humans whine for food more (and certainly across a greater number of years) than do most mammals. My nearly adult-sized adolescents are still begging. The “what’s for supper” questions begin soon as soon as we finish the school and work day. The finches, however, are nagged all day long: chick-wee, chick-wee, chick-wee … is so nearly: feed me, feed me, feed me …. I’ve never heard this ruckus in the winter. Sometime soon they must learn to feed themselves. The coming winter will be both a burden and a season of rest.

Not Your Freaking Pansy: Lycidas

The white Pink, and the Pansie freakt with jeat
– John Milton, Lycidas, ln 144

Viola tricolor

Viola tricolor. Illustration in: C.A.M Lindman: "Bilder ur Nordens Flora" 1917-1927.

These days, pansies are a popular flower for spring borders and containers. Modern hybrids grow quickly and bloom profusely in cool weather. They leg out and need frequent pinching when the weather starts to warm. I’ve over-wintered pansies in South Bend, Indiana (with protection); they made it, but were less vigorous in their second year.

As a curiosity, I’ve grown Johnny Jump Ups (Viola tricolor) too. These were probably the pansies Milton had in mind; our pansies were not widely cultivated until the 19th century. Viola tricolor is a rangy plant, with small, odorless, but very artful blossoms. A single plant will have plenty of variety in its expression of the three colors: purple, white and yellow. And so, for its delicate brush work, I actually prefer the humble Johnny Jump Up to the gaudy marketplace pansy. For that matter, I prefer your average yard violet (Viola sororia) too; I have a fondness for the natural, white-blue hybrids. But back to Milton and the Viola tricolor.

In addition to having its place here in a great string of old words with new meanings (pansy, freaked, jet), the plant has a range of literary associations. As in Milton’s poem, it is a flower of grief. The jet freaks (streaks in this case and not freckles) might be imagined as the streaks of tears on a weeping face. James Patrick McHenry in “A Milton Herbal” probably overstates the association in responding to a John Carey’s edition of Milton’s Complete Shorter Poems (1971):

I do not believe that Carey’s footnote, “The ‘jet’ is a sign of mourning” (250n144), adequately expresses the effect: having its black streaks highlighted, V. tricolor’s bloom becomes a face in mourning. (Milton Quarterly 30, no. 2: 45-110. See pg. 45.)

McHenry possesses a better imagination, perhaps, but I have stared at the flower cross-eyed and have yet to see the face of mourning.

Shakespeare also saw other associations. First, in his famous pun on pansy and pensive from Ophelia’s madness in Hamlet, Act 4, lines 191-192:

There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance; pray,
love, remember: and there is pansies. that’s for thoughts.

And later, and here we get to the licentiousness of “freaked”, in A Midsummer Night’s Dream. In Act 2, Scene 1, lines 168-177. Oberon instructs Puck:

Yet mark’d I where the bolt of Cupid fell:
It fell upon a little western flower,
Before milk-white, now purple with love’s wound,
And maidens call it love-in-idleness.
Fetch me that flower; the herb I shew’d thee once:
The juice of it on sleeping eye-lids laid
Will make or man or woman madly dote
Upon the next live creature that it sees.
Fetch me this herb; and be thou here again
Ere the leviathan can swim a league.

“Love-in-idleness” indeed and clearly sporting a brash, purple hickey. The herb accounts for how one might fall madly in love with a jackass. Coupling with plant with foolish sexual passion finds additional support in Milton’s later use of pansy in Paradise Lost. The flower is included in Adam and Eve’s post-sin sex scene:

Flours were the Couch,
Pansies, and Violets, and Asphodel,
And Hyacinth. (P.L., 9:1040)

The associations grower stranger when one realizes that what American’s have been calling a “Johnny Jump Up” the English have long referred to as Heartsease. While this is explained, perhaps, by its long medicinal history, although not for cardiac problems; how is it that a plant can at once be an emblem of grief, love, joy, “jump up” (whatever that might be), and the ease of one’s heart?

I’ll leave this question unanswered, and end on this: of the many common names, and though I am tempted by the randy “Kiss-her-in-the-Buttery“, I am most fond of Heartsease, and could use a good portion of it right now.

[Note: This is the sixth post in a series. See also: The Flowers in Milton’s “Lycidas”, Primrose: Lycidas, Tufted Crow-toe: Lycidas, Pale Jasmine: Lycidas, and White Pink: Lycidas.]

Tufted Crow-toe: Lycidas

Hyacinthoides non-scripta

Johann Georg Sturm. 1796. Belgische Hyazinthe, Hyacinthus nonscriptus. In: Deutschlands Flora in Abbildungen.

The tufted Crow-toe, and pale Jasmine
– John Milton, Lycidas, ln 143

The genus Corvus deserves respect; of all the birds, the crows will thrive with us. They are fascinating creatures, but their toes (while useful and even industrious) do not remind me of flowers. Why did the word-makers of old name flowers after the crow’s foot? Someone (a peasant, a king, the local shaman) took a look at a flower and said to themselves, their neighbors and the whole tribe: You know what? That flower looks like a crow’s toes. We typically use metaphors and similes to explain an unfamiliar object by referring to a more familiar object. Thus, for the community in which these word-makers made their way, a crow’s toes were a common reference point and visually more familiar than the flower they described. By the time that Milton listed the crow-toe as a flower fit for the imagined funeral of his (lost-at-sea) classmate, people had forgotten the original, bony toes of the crow and imagined the flower instead. Tossing actual crow toes at a casket does have a certain Gothic appeal, but it would likely offend the living (if not the dead) and put one at the mercy of local corvid murders. But what did Milton have in mind? What were the crow-toes blooming in Milton’s literary garden?

Most sources (including the OED) identify Hyacinthoides non-scripta (also known as Scilla nutans), commonly called the English Bluebell. In fact, this line from Lycidas is a common reference, used by the OED and suffusing as the definition of crow-toe in the 1828 edition of Websters. To be fair, the OED, also notes that “crow-toe” additionally refers to Orchis mascula, Lotus corniculatus, and a number of Buttercups (crow-toes in a cup a butter–yum), but I find each of those unlikely in this case. With the possible exception of a some unnamed variety of Buttercup, these were either not common enough or simply not attractive … not worthy of funeral biers. Homer B. Sprague’s notes in an 1891 edition of Paradise Lost make the best case for the Bluebell; Sprague finds one of Milton’s early drafts which does not use “crow-toe”, but does allude to the Hyacinth.  However, how exactly does an English Bluebell look like a crow’s toes? True, the leaf blades are narrow and pointy and the sky blue petals curl back on themselves (like a bird’s foot on a perch?), but what makes them “tufted”? To some, Hyacinth foliage in a field or lawn may appear tuft-like, but I’ve never thought so.

Hyacinths are reliable bulbs and Bluebells spread quickly under trees. They bloom (as do Primroses) in the Spring (maybe a bit later), so it’s feasible to have both Primroses and Bluebells at a special occasion in 17th Century England. The word-makers, however, failed us and failed Milton too. We have lost the crow-toe, while the flower may be alive and well, the word is little more than a ghost of a metaphor.