Orchards Quotes

Authors: A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z
Categories: A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z
in-lush-orchards-alwaqiah-28
selfconfidence-grows-on-trees-in-other-peoples-orchards-mignon-mclaughlin
i-made-me-gardens-and-orchards-and-i-planted-trees-in-them-of-all-kind-of-fruits
many-orchards-circled-village-that-on-some-crisp-october-afternoons-whole-wold-smelled-like-pie-alice-hoffman
the-goldenrod-is-yellow-the-corn-is-turning-brown-the-trees-in-apple-orchards-with-fruit-are-bending-down
each-generation-takes-earth-as-trustees-we-ought-to-bequeath-to-posterity-as-many-forests-orchards-as-we-have-exhausted-consumed
the-goldenrod-is-yellow-the-corn-is-turning-brown-the-trees-in-apple-orchards-with-fruit-are-bending-down-helen-hunt-jackson
i-understood-that-fate-could-not-be-eluded-forever-it-came-on-leathery-wings-swooping-through-darkness-like-bats-in-orchards-alice-hoffman
each-generation-humanity-takes-earth-as-trustees-we-ought-to-bequeath-to-posterity-as-many-forests-orchards-as-we-have-exhausted-consumed-julius-sterling-morton
joy-gladness-are-taken-away-from-orchards-no-one-sings-shouts-in-vineyards-no-one-treads-out-wine-at-presses-for-i-have-put-end-to-shouting-isaiah-1610
on-motionless-branches-some-trees-autumn-berries-hung-like-clusters-coral-beads-as-in-those-fabled-orchards-where-fruits-were-jewels-charles-dickens
the-nostalgic-notion-family-orchards-is-lovely-all-that-wholesome-fruit-for-our-forebears-to-sit-on-back-steps-biting-into-but-basically-we-were-barbara-holland
there-is-virtue-in-country-houses-in-gardens-orchards-in-fields-streams-groves-in-rustic-recreations-plain-manners-that-neither-cities-nor-amos-bronson-alcott
i-visit-orchards-god-look-at-spheric-product-and-look-at-quintillions-ripened-look-at-quintillions-green-walt-whitman
come-clean-with-child-heart-laugh-as-peaches-in-summer-wind-let-rain-on-house-roof-be-song-let-writing-on-your-face-be-smell-apple-orchards-on-late-june-carl-sandburg
im-not-gardener-i-dont-have-consistency-for-gardening-i-have-barely-enough-for-orchard-i-dont-embarrass-myself-you-have-to-be-there-tending-weeding-with-orchards-you-can-go-throu
think-your-woods-orchards-without-birds-of-empty-nests-that-cling-to-boughs-beams-as-in-idiots-brain-remembered-words-hang-empty-mid-cobwebs-his-dreams-henry-wadsworth-longfellow
we-give-our-dead-to-orchards-and-groves-we-give-our-dead-to-life-octavia-butler
We drove 22 miles into the country around Farmington. There were meadows and apple orchards. White fences trailed through the rolling fields. Soon the sign started appearing. THE MOST PHOTOGRAPHED BARN IN AMERICA. We counted five signs before we reached the site. There were 40 cars and a tour bus in the makeshift lot. We walked along a cowpath to the slightly elevated spot set aside for viewing and photographing. All the people had cameras; some had tripods, telephoto lenses, filter kits. A man in a booth sold postcards and slides - pictures of the barn taken from the elevated spot. We stood near a grove of trees and watched the photographers. Murray maintained a prolonged silence, occasionally scrawling some notes in a little book. "No one sees the barn, " he said finally. A long silence followed. "Once you've seen the signs about the barn, it becomes impossible to see the barn." He fell silent once more. People with cameras left the elevated site, replaced by others. We're not here to capture an image, we're here to maintain one. Every photograph reinforces the aura. Can you feel it, Jack? An accumulation of nameless energies." There was an extended silence. The man in the booth sold postcards and slides. "Being here is a kind of spiritual surrender. We see only what the others see. The thousands who were here in the past, those who will come in the future. We've agreed to be part of a collective perception. It literally colors our vision. A religious experience in a way, like all tourism." Another silence ensued. "They are taking pictures of taking pictures, " he said.

Don DeLillo
we-drove-22-miles-into-country-around-farmington-there-were-meadows-apple-orchards-white-fences-trailed-through-rolling-fields-soon-sign-started-appearing-the-most-photographed-b
In a city it's impossible to forget we live in places raised and built over time itself. The past is underneath our feet. Every day when I leave the house , I may walk over a place where a king killed a wolf in the Royal Forest of Stocket, one of the medieval hunting forests , where alder and birch , oak and hazel, willow, cherry and aspen grew. The living trees were cut down , their wood used to fuel the city's growth , it's trade, it's life.The ancient wood , preserved in peat, was found underneath the city(The site of the killing is fairly well buried -the wolf and the king had their encounter some time around the early years of the eleventh century)It's the same as in any other city, built up and over and round , ancient woodlands cut down , bogs drained , watercourses altered, a landscape rendered almost untraceable, vanished.Here, there's a history of 8, 000 years of habitation , the evidence in excavated fish hooks and fish bone reliquaries, in Bronze Age grave-goods of arrowheads and beakers, what's still under the surface, in revenants and ghosts of gardens , of doo'cots and orchards, of middens and piggeries, plague remains and witch-hunts, of Franciscans and Carmelites, their friaries buried , over-taken by time and stone.This is a stonemasons' city , a city of weavers and gardeners and shipwrights and where I walk , there was once a Maison Dieu, a leper house; there was song schools and sewing schools, correction houses and tollboths, hidden under layers of time, still there

Esther Woolfson
in-city-its-impossible-to-forget-we-live-in-places-raised-built-over-time-itself-the-past-is-underneath-our-feet-every-day-when-i-leave-house-i-may-walk-over-place-where-king-kil
And you can glance out the window for a moment, distracted by the sound of small kids playing a made-up game in a neighbor's yard, some kind of kickball maybe, and they speak in your voice, or piggyback races on the weedy lawn, and it's your voice you hear, essentially, under the glimmerglass sky, and you look at the things in the room, offscreen, unwebbed, the tissued grain of the deskwood alive in light, the thick lived tenor of things, the argument of things to be seen and eaten, the apple core going sepia in the lunch tray, and the dense measures of experience in a random glance, the monk's candle reflected in the slope of the phone, hours marked in Roman numerals, and the glaze of the wax, and the curl of the braided wick, and the chipped rim of the mug that holds your yellow pencils, skewed all crazy, and the plied lives of the simplest surface, the slabbed butter melting on the crumbled bun, and the yellow of the yellow of the pencils, and you try to imagine the word on the screen becoming a thing in the world, taking all its meanings, its sense of serenities and contentments out into the streets somehow, its whisper of reconciliation, a word extending itself ever outward, the tone of agreement or treaty, the tone of repose, the sense of mollifying silence, the tone of hail and farewell, a word that carries the sunlit ardor of an object deep in drenching noon, the argument of binding touch, but it's only a sequence of pulses on a dullish screen and all it can do is make you pensive-a word that spreads a longing through the raw sprawl of the city and out across the dreaming bournes and orchards to the solitary hills. Peace.

Don DeLillo
and-you-can-glance-out-window-for-moment-distracted-by-sound-small-kids-playing-madeup-game-in-neighbors-yard-some-kind-kickball-maybe-they-speak-in-your-voice-piggyback-races-on
And at night the river flows, it bears pale stars on the holy water, some sink like veils, some show like fish, the great moon that once was rose now high like a blazing milk flails its white reflection vertical and deep in the dark surgey mass wall river's grinding bed push. As in a sad dream, under the streetlamp, by pocky unpaved holes in dirt, the father James Cassidy comes home with lunchpail and lantern, limping, redfaced, and turns in for supper and sleep. Now a door slams. The kids have rushed out for the last play, the mothers are planning and slamming in kitchens, you can hear it out in swish leaf orchards, on popcorn swings, in the million-foliaged sweet wafted night of sighs, songs, shushes. A thousand things up and down the street, deep, lovely, dangerous, aureating, breathing, throbbing like stars; a whistle, a faint yell; the flow of Lowell over rooftops beyond; the bark on the river, the wild goose of the night yakking, ducking in the sand and sparkle; the ululating lap and purl and lovely mystery on the shore, dark, always dark the river's cunning unseen lips, murmuring kisses, eating night, stealing sand, sneaky. 'Mag-gie!' the kids are calling under the railroad bridge where they've been swimming. The freight train still rumbles over a hundred cars long, the engine threw the flare on little white bathers, little Picasso horses of the night as dense and tragic in the gloom comes my soul looking for what was there that disappeared and left, lost, down a path-the gloom of love. Maggie, the girl I loved.

Jack Kerouac
and-at-night-river-flows-it-bears-pale-stars-on-holy-water-some-sink-like-veils-some-show-like-fish-great-moon-that-once-was-rose-now-high-like-blazing-milk-flails-its-white-refl
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