Lesser Celandine

Ranunculus ficaria, also known as Lesser Celandine is the dark green heart shaped leaf in bloom now with a bright yellow flower. Growing low to the ground under the shade of a tree or in a moist woodland, this little charmer is filled with vitamin C, can be eaten in salads and it's buds can be pickled and used in the same way as capers.

The blossoms close before rain and only open for the nine hours of daylight, closing again by 5 p.m.
Its Celtic name, Grian (meaning the Sun), refers to the habit of this little beauty.
Wordsworth loved the flowers so much that he had them carved on his tomb, and penned three poems in honor of The Small Celandine...




To The Small Celandine....
Pansies, Lilies, Kingcups, Daisies,
Let them live upon their praises;
Long as there's a sun that sets
Primroses will have their glory;
Long as there are Violets,
They will have a place in story:
There's a flower that shall be mine,'
Tis the little Celandine.
Eyes of some men travel far
For the finding of a star;
Up and down the heavens they go,
Men that keep a mighty rout

I'm as great as they, I trow

Since the day I found thee out,Little flower! -
I'll make a stirLike a great Astronomer.
Modest, yet withal an Elf
Bold, and lavish of thyself,
Since we needs must first have met,
I have seen thee, high and low,
Thirty years or more, and yet'
Twas a face I did not know;
Thou hast now, go where I may,Fifty greetings in a day.
Ere a leaf is on a bush,
In the time before the Thrush
Has a thought about its nest,
Thou wild come with half a call,
Spreading out thy glossy breastLike a careless Prodigal;
Telling tales about the sun,
When we've little warmth, or none.
Poets, vain men in their mood!
Travel with the multitude;
Never heed them: I aver
that they all are wanton Wooers;
But the thrifty Cottager,
Who stirs little out of doors,
joys to spy thee near her home,
Spring is coming,
Thou art come!
Comfort have thou of thy merit,Kindly,
unassuming Spirit!
Careless of thy neighbourhood,
Thou dost shew thy pleasant face
On the moor, and in the wood,
In the lane - there's not a place,
Howsoever mean it be,
But 'tis good enough for thee.
Ill befall the yellow Flowers,
Children of the flaring hours!
Buttercups, that will be seen,
Whether we will see or no;
Others too of lofty mien;
They have done as worldlings do,
Taken praise that should be thine,Little, humble Celandine!
Prophet of delight and mirth,
Scorned and slighted upon earth!
Herald of a mighty band,
Of a joyous train ensuing,
Singing at my heart's command,
In the lanes my thoughts pursuing,
I will sing, as doth behove,
Hymns in praise of what I love!