Amaryllis

Now,

the problem I have with them is that I know some people who love pink and I like pink too, but the problem with the Amaryllis boledana, in my opinion, is that it's just this sort of wimpy pink.

See, I like that pink.

Oh, well, this is where I now.

Jackie from Brandon.

Amaryllis did not bloom last spring.

They're in a bed with leery oak.

I didn't cut their leaves back last fall.

The Narcissus William Kerr Higley

Secretary of the Chicago Academy of Sciences The genus of plants, called Narcissus, many of the species of which are highly esteemed by the floriculturist and lover of cultivated plants, belongs to the Amaryllis family, Amaryllidaceae.

this family includes about seventy genera and over eight hundred species that are mostly native in tropical or semi-tropical countries though a few are found in temperate climates many of the species are sought for ornamental purposes and on account of their beauty and remarkable odor they are more prized by many than are the species of the lily family in this group is classed the american aloe agave americana valued not only for cultivation but also by the mexicans on account of the sweet fluid which is yielded by its central this liquid after fermentation forms an intoxicating liquor known as pulque by distillation this yields a liquid very similar to rum called by mexicans mescal the leaves furnish a strong fiber known as vegetable silk from which since remote times paper has been manufactured the popular opinion is that this plant flowers but once in a century hence the name century plant is often applied to it though under proper culture it will blossom more frequently other plants of equal economic and historic interest but less known belong to this family it is said that one species furnished the fluid used by the hottentots for poisoning their arrows the genus narcissus derives its name from a greek word meaning stupor because of the narcotic effect produced by the odor and by portions of the plants of some species there are about twenty-five species chiefly natives of southern europe but some of them either natural or modified by the gardener's art are world-wide in cultivation blossoming early in the season they are frequently referred to as harbingers of spring the flowers are handsome large varying in color from yellow to white and sometimes marked with crimson they are usually borne on a nearly naked stem some of the species are very fragrant the leaves are elongated nearly sword-shaped and usually about a foot in length rising from the bulbous underground stem among the forms that are familiar are the daffodils the jonquils and the poet's narcissus an interesting feature in the structure of the flowers is the cup or crown which is found at the base of the flower segments the length and character of this is an important feature in the separation of the species in grecian mythology narcissus was the son of the river god cephisus he failed to return the love of the mountain nymph echo which so grieved her that she pined away till nothing remained but her voice which gave back with absolute fidelity all sounds uttered in the hills and dales Narcissus was punished for this by Aphrodite, who caused him to love his own image as it was reflected in the water of a neighboring fountain.

Consumed with unrequited love, he too wasted away and was changed into the flower which bears his name.

Through ages in which the most arrogant and elaborate ideals of power and civilization held otherwise undisputed sway, the ideal of the perfect and healthy peasant did undoubtedly represent in some shape or form the conception that there was a dignity in simplicity and a dignity in labour.

it was good for the ancient aristocrat even if he could not attain to innocence and the wisdom of the earth to believe that these things were the secrets of the priesthood of the poor it was good for him to believe that even if heaven was not above him heaven was below him it was well they should have amid all his flamboyant triumphs the never extinguished sentiment that there was something better than his triumphs the conception that there remaineth a rest the conception of the ideal shepherd seems absurd to our modern ideas but after all it was perhaps the only trade of the democracy which was equalised with trades of the aristocracy even by the aristocracy itself the shepherd of pastoral poetry was without doubt very different from the shepherd of actual fact where one innocently piped to his lambs the other innocently swore at them and their divergence in intellect and personal cleanliness was immense But the difference between the ideal shepherd who danced with Amaryllis and the real shepherd who thrashed her is not a scrap greater than the difference between the ideal soldier who dies to capture the colours and the real soldier who lives to clean his accouterments.

Between the ideal priest who is everlastingly by someone's bed and the real priest who is as glad as anyone else to get his own.

There are ideal conceptions and real men in every calling.

I matched numbers to calendars, then paused.

A charge from Amaryllis, a candlelit spot way across town, popped up close to midnight, on a Tuesday when Nora said she'd been at the office until after 11, everyone else too tired to stick around.

I found another restaurant, Sable, same week, similar odd hour.

I stared at the columns for a while, chewing at my bottom lip.

Actually, I'm meeting with a supplier from Denver next week.

If we land this vendor, we could shave a month off demo.

She didn't mention Amaryllis or Sable or why those charges didn't match the places she'd said she'd been.

I let her talk, watching the way her hair fell forward as she gestured at her phone, the way she can fill silence so easily, push it around like clay.

And it's this big, wide strappy leaf.

It almost, if you've grown Amaryllis for Christmas time, the foliage reminds me a lot of that.

You know, these big strappy leaves, they're very shiny, uh, in green and they, they will, uh, uh, can pop up as early as.

Late March, surely even into late February and will generally last until June for us and then die down.

Where were ye, nymphs, when the remorseless deep Closed o'er the head of your loved Lycidas? For neither were you playing on the steep Where your old bards, the famous Druids, lie, Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high, Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream.

Ay me, I fondly dream, had ye been there For what could that have done? What could the muse herself that Orpheus bore, The muse herself for her enchanting son, Whom universal nature did lament When by the rout that made the hideous roar, His gory visage down the stream was sent, Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore? Alas, what boots it with incessant care To tend the homely slighted shepherd's trade, And strictly meditate the thankless muse? Were it not better done, as others use, To sport with Amaryllis in the shade, Or with the tangles of Neaera's hair? Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise, That last infirmity of noble mind, To scorn delights, and live laborious days.

But the fair guerdon when we hope to find, And think to burst out into sudden blaze, Comes the blind fury with the horrid shears, And slits the thin-spun life.

But not the praise, Phoebus replied, And touched my trembling ears.