Within the woodlands flow'ry gladed
By the oak tree's mossy moot...
I realize my blog name may be misleading. Sorry, this isn't a blog about nature and gardening and the woods in that sense.
So if you're wondering where my blog name comes from, let me tell you about a poem, a song, a place, really.
It's called Linden Lea.
When I was in the eight grade, I joined the high school chorus. (At that time, the eighth grade was part of the high school -- as if high school wasn't scary enough as a ninth grader, they had to throw us in one year earlier.) I didn't know then that all the songs, whether classical or popular, that the chorus instructor would make us sing throughout high school would stick with me through my adult years. One of the songs we sang that first year was Linden Lea, a poem by William Barnes set to music.
I used to wonder, when I was younger, if Linden Lea was a real place. Maybe William Barnes had written the poem about a real place, maybe in England or somewhere, and maybe I could go there. But when I asked around, no one had heard of it. This was before Wikipedia and all that.
It wasn't until recently, last week actually, that I found out there is a place called Linden Lea. Well, Lindenlea. One word. The song was stuck in my head one day so I decided to Google it (because I guess that's what you do when a song is stuck in your head?), and the first thing that came up was a Wikipedia entry for a place called Lindenlea, a neighborhood in Ottawa, Ontario, Canada. Canada was the last place I expected it to be, but I read on anyway.
Turns out there isn't much in Lindenlea, Canada. According to Wikipedia, "Lindenlea has a children's park, tennis courts, a bowling green and a community centre." This doesn't sound like the one from the poem. But it does mention that "Lindenlea is notable for its picturesque architecture, mature trees, and plentiful green space." That's promising.
Still, I don't think this is the Linden Lea I've been looking for.
That's okay. I've realized I don't need to find it. I don't need it to exist anywhere else but in the poem, in the song, in my head. Because it's the place I go when I need to remind myself of a very important thing, especially when I'm writing. When you read (or listen to) the last verse (see the full song below), you'll know what I mean.
Within the woodlands
flow'ry gladed
By the oak tree's mossy moot
The shining grass blade timber shaded
Now do quiver on the foot
And birds
do whistle overhead
And water's bubbling in its bed
And there for me the apple
tree
Do lean down low in Linden Lea.
When leaves that lately were a-springing
Now do fade within the copse
And
painted birds do hush their singing
High upon the timber tops,
And brown leaved
fruit is turning red,
In cloudless sunshine overhead,
With root for me the
apple tree
Do lean down low in Linden
Lea.
Let other folk make money faster
In the air of dark-roomed towns.
I don't
dread a peevish master
Though no man may heed my frowns
For I be free to go
abroad
Or take again my homeward road
To where, for me, the apple tree
Do lean down low in Linden Lea.
