When I have pluck’d the rose,
I cannot give it vital growth again,
It needs must wither: I’ll smell it on the tree.
William Shakespeare, Othello, act V, scene 2
Perhaps I should start with a few of my prejudices. I don’t like to pick the roses in my front yard (or have anyone else pick them), so none of my roses are selected with that fate in mind. I don’t particularly care for modern hybrid teas; to me, they are over civilized, unnaturally perfect, and more suited to the florist’s shop than the garden, and, as the saying goes, “they don’t die well.” The older roses I favor tend to have one season of extravagant bloom and reach their peak just before they are finished for the year. They also know how to age gracefully, whereas the supreme moment for a modern rose is when it is still in the bud.
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