ORCHARDS

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 does n't know.