O Rose, thou art
sick!
The invisible worm
That flies in the
night
In the howling
storm
Has found out thy
bed
Of crimson joy:
And his dark secret
love
Does thy life
destroy
William Blake
It has been my experience after having grown roses since
1987 that roses are like babies and cats. They never perform on demand. They do
as they please and often they can surprise you when you are not looking.
The David Austin English Rose Rosa ‘Benjamin Britten’ is
ample proof that I may be right. This year, a month ago, the leaves that
emerged all had some sort of black spot. I sprayed the rose with the only BC
acceptable fungicide Safer’s
Defender. I pulled
a few of the infected leaves. The plant looks terrible.
And yet today I found this glorious bloom. It reminded me
that Benjamin Britten wrote a work for that William Blake poem. And here it is.