FLORENCE BLUME

FLORENCE BLUME - A GHOST STORY

Before he died, Florence Blume was a solitary man who enjoyed living alone with his cats in his beautiful home in the woods. At the entrance to his house, he hung an old Irish proverb, 'Beware of people who dislike cats. It seemed to keep unwanted visitors and fake friends away. 

The isle of green was an easy place to fall in love with flowers. Florence knew what he wanted to do with the rest of his life. 

He was a professor at the nearby college and taught Botany. 

All his free time was spent tending the gardens surrounding his home, always in the company of his two cats, Maggie and Bat. 

Florence had a favorite flower, The Lily of the Valley, and his favorite season was Spring. One night, after dinner, while listening to his classical music and reading poetry, he came across a poem by Tchaikovsky, 'Lilies of the Valley '- He had discovered a kindred spirit who loved the same season and flower as he. The two souls had the same thought, after death, darkness, or light? Florence knew the joys of the earth; before and after his death.  




LILIES OF THE VALLEY -TCHAIKOVSKY


"I wait for spring. And now the enchantress appears,

The wood has cast off its shroud

And prepares for us shade,

And the rivers start to flow, and the grove is filled with sound,

And at last, the long-looked-for day is here!

Quick to the woods!—I race along the familiar path.

Can my dreams have come true, my longings be fulfilled?—

There he is! Bending to the earth, with trembling hand

I pluck the wondrous gift of the enchantress Spring.

O lily of the valley, why do you so please the eye?

Other flowers there are more sumptuous and grand,

With brighter colours and livelier patterns,

Yet they have not your mysterious fascination.

Where lies the secret of your charms? What do you prophesy to the soul?

With what do you attract me, with what gladden my heart?

Is it that you revive the ghost of former pleasures,

Or is it future bliss that you promise us?" excerpt from Lilies of The Valley was written by Tchaikovsky in December 1878 while he was in Florence.

LILIES OF THE VALLEY

When at the end of spring I pick for the last time
My favourite flowers— a yearning fills my breast,
And to the future I urgently appeal:
Let me but once again look upon the lilies of the valley.
Now they have faded. Like an arrow the summer has flown by,
The days have grown shorter. The feathered choir is still,
The sun more charily grants us its warmth and light,
And already the wood has laid its leafy carpet.
Then when harsh winter comes
And the forests don their snowy cover,
Despondently I roam and wait with new yearning
For the skies to shine with the sun of spring.
I find no pleasure in books, or conversation,
Or swift-rushing sledges, or the ball's noisy glitter,
Or Patti, or the theatre, or delicate cuisine,
Or the quiet crackling of smouldering logs on the fire
I wait for spring. And now the enchantress appears,
The wood has cast off its shroud
And prepares for us shade,
And the rivers start to flow, and the grove is filled with sound,
And at last the long-looked-for day is here!
Quick to the woods!—I race along the familiar path.
Can my dreams have come true, my longings be fulfilled?—
There he is! Bending to the earth, with trembling hand
I pluck the wondrous gift of the enchantress Spring.
O lily of the valley, why do you so please the eye?
Other flowers there are more sumptuous and grand,
With brighter colours and livelier patterns,
Yet they have not your mysterious fascination.
Where lies the secret of your charms? What do you prophesy to the soul?
With what do you attract me, with what gladden my heart?
Is it that you revive the ghost of former pleasures,
Or is it future bliss that you promise us?
I know not. But your balmy fragrance,
Like flowing wine, warms and intoxicates me,
Like music, it takes my breath away,
And like a flame of love, it suffuses my burning cheeks.
And I am happy while you bloom, modest lily of the valley,
The tedium of winter days has passed without a trace,
And oppressive thoughts are gone, and in my heart in languid comfort
Welcomes, with you, forgetfulness of trouble and woe.
Yet now you fade. Again in monotonous succession
The days will begin to flow slowly, and stronger than before
Will I be tormented by importunate yearning,
By the agonizing dream of the happiness of days in May.

And then someday spring again will call
And raise the living world out of its fetters.
But the hour will strike. I shall be no more among the living,
I shall meet, like everyone, my fated turn.
And then what?—Where, at the winged hour of death,
Will my soul, heeding its command, soundlessly soar?
No answer! Be silent, my restless mind,
You cannot guess what eternity holds for us.
But like all of nature, drawn by our thirst to live,
We call to you and wait, beautiful Spring!
The joys of earth are so near to us, so familiar—
The yawning maw of the grave so dark! ~ PYOTR LLYICH TCHAIKOVSKY

Spring is late this year but on a good note, it gave me a chance to pick my favorite flower...LILIES OF THE VALLEY and I was ☘️ to find this painting "Lady of Shallott" by Waterhouse.