Poem by William Morris

The Orchard

Midst bitten mead and acre shorn,
The world without is waste and worn,

But here within our orchard-close,
The guerdon of its labour shows.

O valiant Earth, O happy year
That mocks the threat of winter near,

And hangs aloft from tree to tree
The banners of the Spring to be. 

1. Of The Three Seekers
2. From the Upland to the Sea
3. The Flowering Orchard
4. To The Muse Of The North
5. Sad-Eyed and Soft and Grey

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