Gardening is – in its core – an exercise in living in pleated time: the flowers-planned  are just as active in my mind as the flowers-present. These bulbs are very much flowers-planned:  interesting little packets of information.

I find it very difficult to put into words the feelings that bulbs inspire. Went to the poets to find some (words, that is). This is Edgar Guest speaking:

Bulb Planting Time

Last night he said the dead were dead
  And scoffed my faith to scorn;
I found him at a tulip bed
  When I passed by at morn.

“O ho!” said I, “the frost is near
  And mist is on the hills,
And yet I find you planting here
  Tulips and daffodils.”

"‘Tis time to plant them now," he said,
  “If they shall bloom in Spring”;
“But every bulb," said I, “seems dead,
  And such an ugly thing.”

“The pulse of life I cannot feel,
  The skin is dried and brown.
Now look!” a bulb beneath my heel
  I crushed and trampled down.

In anger then he said to me:
  “You’ve killed a lovely thing;
A scarlet blossom that would be
  Some morning in the Spring.”

“Last night a greater sin was thine,"
  To him I slowly said;
“You trampled on the dead of mine
  And told me they are dead.”