Orchards

A poem by Theodosia Garrison

Orchards in the Spring-time! Oh, I think and think of them,--
Filmy mists of pink and white above the fresh, young green,
Lifting and drifting,--how my eyes could drink of them,
I'm staring at a dirty wall beyond a big machine.

Orchards in the Spring-time! Deep in soft, cool shadows,--
Moving all together when the west wind blows
Fragrance upon fragrance over road and meadows--
I'm smelling heat and oil and sweat, and thick, black clothes.

Orchards in the Spring-time! The clean white and pink of them
Lifting and drifting with all the winds that blow.
Orchards in the Spring-time! Thank God I still can think of them!
You're not docked for thinking,--if the foreman doesn't know.

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