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Best Famous Orange Tree Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Orange Tree poems. This is a select list of the best famous Orange Tree poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Orange Tree poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of orange tree poems.

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Written by Philip Levine | Create an image from this poem

The Rat Of Faith

 A blue jay poses on a stake 
meant to support an apple tree 
newly planted.
A strong wind on this clear cold morning barely ruffles his tail feathers.
When he turns his attention toward me, I face his eyes without blinking.
A week ago my wife called me to come see this same bird chase a rat into the thick leaves of an orange tree.
We came as close as we could and watched the rat dig his way into an orange, claws working meticulously.
Then he feasted, face deep into the meal, and afterwards washed himself in juice, paws scrubbing soberly.
Surprised by the whiteness of the belly, how open it was and vulnerable, I suggested I fetch my .
22.
She said, "Do you want to kill him?" I didn't.
There are oranges enough for him, the jays, and us, across the fence in the yard next door oranges rotting on the ground.
There is power in the name rat, a horror that may be private.
When I was a boy and heir to tales of savagery, of sleeping men and kids eaten half away before they could wake, I came to know that horror.
I was afraid that left alive the animal would invade my sleep, grown immense now and powerful with the need to eat flesh.
I was wrong.
Night after night I wake from dreams of a city like no other, the bright city of beauty I thought I'd lost when I lost my faith that one day we would come into our lives.
The wind gusts and calms shaking this miniature budding apple tree that in three months has taken to the hard clay of our front yard.
In one hop the jay turns his back on me, dips as though about to drink the air itself, and flies.


Written by Louise Gluck | Create an image from this poem

Castile

 Orange blossoms blowing over Castile
children begging for coins

I met my love under an orange tree
or was it an acacia tree
or was he not my love?

I read this, then I dreamed this:
can waking take back what happened to me?
Bells of San Miguel
ringing in the distance
his hair in the shadows blond-white

I dreamed this,
does that mean it didn't happen?
Does it have to happen in the world to be real?

I dreamed everything, the story
became my story:

he lay beside me,
my hand grazed the skin of his shoulder

Mid-day, then early evening:
in the distance, the sound of a train

But it was not the world:
in the world, a thing happens finally, absolutely,
the mind cannot reverse it.
Castile: nuns walking in pairs through the dark garden.
Outside the walls of the Holy Angels children begging for coins When I woke I was crying, has that no reality? I met my love under an orange tree: I have forgotten only the facts, not the inference— there were children, somewhere, crying, begging for coins I dreamed everything, I gave myself completely and for all time And the train returned us first to Madrid then to the Basque country
Written by Robert William Service | Create an image from this poem

The Younger Son

 If you leave the gloom of London and you seek a glowing land,
 Where all except the flag is strange and new,
There's a bronzed and stalwart fellow who will grip you by the hand,
 And greet you with a welcome warm and true;
For he's your younger brother, the one you sent away
 Because there wasn't room for him at home;
And now he's quite contented, and he's glad he didn't stay,
 And he's building Britain's greatness o'er the foam.
When the giant herd is moving at the rising of the sun, And the prairie is lit with rose and gold, And the camp is all abustle, and the busy day's begun, He leaps into the saddle sure and bold.
Through the round of heat and hurry, through the racket and the rout, He rattles at a pace that nothing mars; And when the night-winds whisper and camp-fires flicker out, He is sleeping like a child beneath the stars.
When the wattle-blooms are drooping in the sombre she-oak glade, And the breathless land is lying in a swoon, He leaves his work a moment, leaning lightly on his spade, And he hears the bell-bird chime the Austral noon.
The parrakeets are silent in the gum-tree by the creek; The ferny grove is sunshine-steeped and still; But the dew will gem the myrtle in the twilight ere he seek His little lonely cabin on the hill.
Around the purple, vine-clad slope the argent river dreams; The roses almost hide the house from view; A snow-peak of the Winterberg in crimson splendor gleams; The shadow deepens down on the karroo.
He seeks the lily-scented dusk beneath the orange tree; His pipe in silence glows and fades and glows; And then two little maids come out and climb upon his knee, And one is like the lily, one the rose.
He sees his white sheep dapple o'er the green New Zealand plain, And where Vancouver's shaggy ramparts frown, When the sunlight threads the pine-gloom he is fighting might and main To clinch the rivets of an Empire down.
You will find him toiling, toiling, in the south or in the west, A child of nature, fearless, frank, and free; And the warmest heart that beats for you is beating in his breast, And he sends you loyal greeting o'er the sea.
You've a brother in the army, you've another in the Church; One of you is a diplomatic swell; You've had the pick of everything and left him in the lurch, And yet I think he's doing very well.
I'm sure his life is happy, and he doesn't envy yours; I know he loves the land his pluck has won; And I fancy in the years unborn, while England's fame endures, She will come to bless with pride -- The Younger Son.
Written by Henry Van Dyke | Create an image from this poem

Sicily December 1908

 O garden isle, beloved by Sun and Sea, --
Whose bluest billows kiss thy curving bays,
Whose amorous light enfolds thee in warm rays
That fill with fruit each dark-leaved orange-tree, --
What hidden hatred hath the Earth for thee? 
Behold, again, in these dark, dreadful days, 
She trembles with her wrath, and swiftly lays 
Thy beauty waste in wreck and agony! 

Is Nature, then, a strife of jealous powers,
And man the plaything of unconscious fate?
Not so, my troubled heart! God reigns above
And man is greatest in his darkest hours:
Walking amid the cities desolate,
The Son of God appears in human love.
Written by Walter Savage Landor | Create an image from this poem

F?sulan Idyl

 Here, where precipitate Spring with one light bound
Into hot Summer's lusty arms expires;
And where go forth at morn, at eve, at night,
Soft airs, that want the lute to play with them,
And softer sighs, that know not what they want;
Under a wall, beneath an orange-tree
Whose tallest flowers could tell the lowlier ones
Of sights in Fiesole right up above,
While I was gazing a few paces off
At what they seemed to show me with their nods,
Their frequent whispers and their pointing shoots,
A gentle maid came down the garden-steps
And gathered the pure treasure in her lap.
I heard the branches rustle, and stept forth To drive the ox away, or mule, or goat, (Such I believed it must be); for sweet scents Are the swift vehicles of still sweeter thoughts, And nurse and pillow the dull memory That would let drop without them her best stores.
They bring me tales of youth and tones of love, And 'tis and ever was my wish and way To let all flowers live freely, and all die, Whene'er their Genius bids their souls depart, Among their kindred in their native place.
I never pluck the rose; the violet's head Hath shaken with my breath upon its bank And not reproacht me; the ever-sacred cup Of the pure lily hath between my hands Felt safe, unsoil'd, nor lost one grain of gold.
I saw the light that made the glossy leaves More glossy; the fair arm, the fairer cheek Warmed by the eye intent on its pursuit; I saw the foot, that, altho half-erect From its grey slipper, could not lift her up To what she wanted: I held down a branch And gather'd her some blossoms, since their hour Was come, and bees had wounded them, and flies Of harder wing were working their way thro And scattering them in fragments under foot.
So crisp were some, they rattled unevolved, Others, ere broken off, fell into shells, For such appear the petals when detacht, Unbending, brittle, lucid, white like snow, And like snow not seen thro, by eye or sun: Yet every one her gown received from me Was fairer than the first .
.
I thought not so, But so she praised them to reward my care.
I said: you find the largest.
This indeed, Cried she, is large and sweet.
She held one forth, Whether for me to look at or to take She knew not, nor did I; but taking it Would best have solved (and this she felt) her doubts.
I dared not touch it; for it seemed a part Of her own self; fresh, full, the most mature Of blossoms, yet a blossom; with a touch To fall, and yet unfallen.
She drew back The boon she tendered, and then, finding not The ribbon at her waist to fix it in, Dropt it, as loth to drop it, on the rest.


Written by Sidney Lanier | Create an image from this poem

Tampa Robins

 The robin laughed in the orange-tree:
"Ho, windy North, a fig for thee:
While breasts are red and wings are bold
And green trees wave us globes of gold,
Time's scythe shall reap but bliss for me
-- Sunlight, song, and the orange-tree.
Burn, golden globes in leafy sky, My orange-planets: crimson I Will shine and shoot among the spheres (Blithe meteor that no mortal fears) And thrid the heavenly orange-tree With orbits bright of minstrelsy.
If that I hate wild winter's spite -- The gibbet trees, the world in white, The sky but gray wind over a grave -- Why should I ache, the season's slave? I'll sing from the top of the orange-tree `Gramercy, winter's tyranny.
' I'll south with the sun, and keep my clime; My wing is king of the summer-time; My breast to the sun his torch shall hold; And I'll call down through the green and gold `Time, take thy scythe, reap bliss for me, Bestir thee under the orange-tree.
'"
Written by Sir Philip Sidney | Create an image from this poem

Sonnet ***: Whether the Turkish New Moon

 Whether the Turkish new moon minded be 
To fill his horns this year on Christian coast; 
How Poles' right king means, with leave of host, 
To warm with ill-made fire cold Muscovy; 

If French can yet three parts in one agree; 
What now the Dutch in their full diets boast; 
How Holland hearts, now so good towns be lost, 
Trust in the shade of pleasing Orange tree; 

How Ulster likes of that same golden bit 
Wherewith my father once made it half tame; 
If in the Scotch court be no welt'ring yet: 

These questions busy wits to me do frame.
I, cumber'd with good manners, answer do, But know not how, for still I think of you.
Written by Robert William Service | Create an image from this poem

Eyrie

 Between the mountain and the sea
 I've made a happy landing;
And here a peace has come to me
 That passeth understanding;
A shining faith and purity
 Beyond demanding.
With palm below and pine above, Where wings of gulls are gleaming; By orange tree and olive grove, From walls of airy seeming, My roses beg me not to rove, But linger dreaming.
So I'm in love with life again, And would with joy dissever My days from ways of worldly men, And mingle with them never: Let silken roses to my ken Whisper forever.