Splendour in the Grass

Did you know it was Wordsworth who coined that term? I didn't until I happened across his very long poem Ode: Imitations of Immortality from Recollections of Childhood. It goes on a bit but the grassy verse is quite nice: 

Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower,
We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind,
In the primal sympathy
Which having been must ever be,
In the soothing thoughts that spring
Out of human suffering,
In the faith that looks through death,
In years that bring the philosophic mind


Anyway, these grasses were looking pretty fine, part of a wildflower meadow, easily overlooked by the more glamorous blooms.



Boy, I slept well after yesterday's early rise and had a relatively gentle day. Himself went off sketching and I  cleaned the conservatory, pootled in the garden (hacking bracken rather than brambles for a change); walked the circuit and treated myself to lunch in the Heron Gallery - olives, hummus and breadsticks. Sadly no retsina.