Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, MORNING IN THE ORCHARD (TO AN INVALID), by NORMAN ROWLAND GALE


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

MORNING IN THE ORCHARD (TO AN INVALID), by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: They wake, they sing - both thrush and lass!
Last Line: Than all our pears and apples are.
Subject(s): Birds; Country Life; Love; Morning


THEY wake, they sing—both thrush and lass!
The blackbird's in the orchard grass,
And sprinkles in his rapid quest
Great dewdrops on his jetty breast.

The fruity acre, veiled in white
Of buds and blossoms opened quite,
Grows warm with sun; and soon is heard
That dear duet of bee and bird.

How Nature haunts the fragrant aisles
With musing skirts and happy smiles!
And how her windy whispers stir
The bridal boughs in praise of her!

The scent, the hush are priests of good
In such a spicy solitude!
O, where's the town and where's the mart
Can cleanse me thus my foolish heart?

The comfort of the air is full,
The thrush's sermon is not dull.
What fine persuasion! And how fair
His leafy altar in the pear!

The country is a poem writ
By God, and few decipher it;
Come, hear the mellow thrush translate
The silence of his mother-mate!

He's in the apple-blossom now
With golden chant on silver bough;
His wants are little—so be mine!—
A worm for loaf and dew for wine.

O let my cellar be the hill
Whence flows the unpolluted rill,
That all my Caecuban may be
Sweet Nature's, and her own the key!

Give me my daily home-made bread,
A wife's dear bosom for my head;
A flagon bubbling from the well,
The wood for church, the finch for bell;

A son to clasp my finger tight,
God's care to nest him through the night;
His mother's hand to gentle me
When that my head is on her knee.

Here can I walk a lovely land,
And smooth the fledgling with my hand;
Can track the runnel to its source
Past raspberry canes and lovers' gorse.

But you, dear friend, upon your bed
Must dream activities instead,
While robbers bring the hedge's bliss
In haste for you to stroke and kiss.

Yet you may have approaches fine
To angel secrets and divine,
While we who stride the dewy sod
Be far less clearly taught of God.

Who knows? Within your mind may be
A perfect orchard fair to see,
And Fancy's fruit be sweeter far
Than all our pears and apples are.





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