WHEN ORCHARDS BLOOM 29 



and the warbling vireo, and down the 

 road the cattle saunter homeward from 

 the pasture, and the orchard fragrance 

 comes retrospectively, like a refrain 

 that lingers in the memory. 



Precious is the solitude and the 

 song of the water thrush, for they 

 soothe the spirit; precious are the 

 orchards, the sunlight, and the home- 

 going cattle, for they warm the heart. 

 The red thrush perching high pours 

 out his voluble song, while the lilacs 

 sway over the wall. Still querying in 

 an elm swings the oriole; is he bird, or 

 flower, or cloud, or the transmigration 

 of all? 



