Orchard Quotes - Page 6

• I am dying into your mystery, and dying, I am now no other than that mystery. I open to your majesty as an orchard welcomes rain, and twenty times that.

  Rumi

  Rain, Dying, Twenties

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• But why should not the New Englander try new adventures - not lay so much stress on his grain, his potato and grass crop, and his orchards - and raise other crops than these? Why concern ourselves so much about our beans for seed, and not be concerned at all about a new generation of men.

  Henry David Thoreau

  Stress, Adventure, Men

  Henry David Thoreau (2016). “The Illustrated Walden: Thoreau Bicentennial Edition”, p.171, Penguin

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• The summer has seized you, as when, last month in Amalfi, I saw lemons as large as your desk-side globe-that miniature map of the world-and I could mention, too, the market stalls of mushrooms and garlic bugs all engorged. Or I even think of the orchard next door, where the berries are done and the apples are beginning to swell. And once, with our first backyard,I remember I planted an acre of yellow beans we couldn't eat.

  Anne Sexton

  Summer, Thinking, Doors

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• The era of wild apples will soon be over. I wander through old orchards of great extent, now all gone to decay, all of native fruit which for the most part went to the cider mill. But since the temperance reform and the general introduction of grafted fruit, no wild apples, such as I see everywhere in deserted pastures, and where the woods have grown up among them, are set out. I fear that he who walks over these hills a century hence will not know the pleasure of knocking off wild apples.

  Henry David Thoreau

  Apples, Decay, Cider

  Henry David Thoreau, Joseph O. Valentine, Thoreau Society (2001). “Thoreau on Land: Nature's Canvas”, p.77, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt

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• A hungry dog believes in nothing but meat.

  Anton Chekhov

  Dog, Believe, Meat

  Anton Chekhov (2012). “Four Great Russian Plays”, p.32, Courier Corporation

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• They heard somewhere in that tenantless night a bell that tolled and ceased where no bell was and they rode out on the round dais of the earth which alone was dark and no light to it and which carried their figures and bore them up into the swarming stars so that they rode not under but among them and they rode at once jaunty and circumspect, like thieves newly loosed in that dark electric, like young thieves in a glowing orchard, loosely jacketed against the cold and ten thousand worlds for the choosing.

  Cormac McCarthy

  Stars, Dark, Night

  Cormac McCarthy (2012). “All the Pretty Horses”, p.31, Pan Macmillan

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• Every spirit passing through the world fingers the tangible and mars the mutable and finally has come to look and not to buy. So shoes are worn and hassocks are sat upon and finally everything is left where it was and the spirit passes on, just as the wind in the orchard picks up the leaves from the ground as if there were no other pleasure in the world but brown leaves, as if it would deck, clothe, flesh itself in flourishes of dusty brown apple leaves and then drops them all in a heap at the side of the house and goes on.

  Marilynne Robinson

  Shoes, Apples, Wind

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