The Orchard

(inspired by William Butler Yeats)

  
How often have I sat here, and dreamt of years before,
When I had orchards pale near, and apples on the bough,
And blooms of pink and white near, where doves would dive and soar.
How much I think of those pink woods now. 
 
And if I could but go there, go where the sparrows trill,
Where the small brook speaks softly, and flowers drape and trail,
And daylight yields a vapor that holds through evening still,
I'd lose my cares in the pale fog veil.  
 
How often have I sat here and spoken of this land,
And smelt the apples ripe there, the flowers light and kind.
I'll go there and not keep these newspapers in my hand--
I'll look for what the world can't find.