Already in the dew-wrapped vineyards dry <br />Dense weights of heat press down. The large bright drops <br />Shrink in the leaves. From dark acacia tops <br />The nuthatch flings his short reiterate cry; <br />And ever as the sun mounts hot and high <br />Thin voices crowd the grass. In soft long strokes <br />The wind goes murmuring through the mountain oaks. <br />Faint wefts creep out along the blue and die. <br />I hear far in among the motionless trees-- <br />Shadows that sleep upon the shaven sod-- <br />The thud of dropping apples. Reach on reach <br />Stretch plots of perfumed orchard, where the bees <br />Murmur among the full-fringed golden-rod, <br />Or cling half-drunken to the rotting peach.<br /><br />Archibald Lampman<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/among-the-orchards/
