For a few brief days the orchards are white with blossoms. They soon turn to fruit, or else float away, useless and wasted, upon the idle breeze. So will it be with present feelings. They must be deepened into decision, or be entirely dissipated by delay.
Self-confidence grows on trees, in other people's orchards.
. . . and so many orchards circled the village that on some crisp October afternoons the whole wold smelled like pie.
The leaves are falling, falling as if from far up,as if orchards were dying high in space. Each leaf falls as if it were motioning "no. "And tonight the heavy earth is fallingaway from all other stars in the loneliness. We're all falling. This hand here is falling. And look at the other one. It's in them all. And yet there is Someone, whose handsinfinitely calm, holding up all this falling.
The nostalgic notion of the family orchards is lovely - all that wholesome fruit for our forebears to sit on the back steps biting into - but basically we were growing it to drink.
The nightingales are sobbing in The orchards of our mothers, And hearts that we broke long ago Have long been breaking others; Tears are round, the sea is deep: Roll them overboard and sleep.
Come clean with a child heart Laugh as peaches in the summer wind Let rain on a house roof be a song Let the writing on your face be a smell of apple orchards on late June.
We give our dead To the orchards And the groves. We give our dead To life.
