White Rose


The weather is pretty miserable in Vienna today, cold, grey and not very cheery.

I don’t know why but these white roses in my garden, though so beautiful, also tend to put me in a melancholy frame of mind. I think I have to lay the blame at the door of Hugh Macdiarmid, one of Scotland’s best poets. He wrote a poem called “The Little White Rose”:

“The rose of all the world is not for me.

I want for my part

Only the little white rose of Scotland

That smells sharp and sweet – and breaks the heart”.


My roses are neither little, nor are they scented, but on a gloomy day, away from home, they will do.


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