Fruit From Washington - Quotes of a Fruitful Nature
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Fruit From Washington - Quotes of a Fruitful Nature |
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Fruitful Literary, Traditional and Contemporary Quotes
The following quotes from poetry and prose, on the subject of living life, love and the nature of truth and beauty, many of which are encapsulated within the metaphor of fruit, have been collected here for your use and enjoyment by FruitFromWashington.
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On Fruit, Family, Friendship, and Love My grandfather
in those days had much leisure time...He
read much in those last years in science. When he was not reading
Trowbridge to his grandchildren, it was Huxley to himself. But
when his eyes grew tired, he would on an occasion--if there
was canning in the house--go into the kitchen where my mother
and grandmother worked, and help pare the fruit. Seriously,
as though he were engaged upon a game, he would cut the skin
into thinnest strips, unbroken to the end, and would hold up
the coil for us to see. Or if he broke it in the cutting it
was a point against him in the contest. Your beauty is your life and
my content, To be happy you must have taken
the measure of your powers, tasted the fruits of your passion,
and learned your place in the world. A grape was
made to grow on a vine I ask you for white blossoms. Bring a concertina after sunset
under the apple trees. ‘How shall my heart be fed The very room, coz she was in,
The afternoon of summer folds And with its gleaming fingers,
pets That from the casement vases
spill, Their fragrance down the garden
walks How vividly the sunshine scrawls How like a truant swings the
breeze The slender "free-stone" lifts
aloof, A hoard of fruitage, stamped
with gold High up, through curled green
leaves, a pear Beneath the sagging trellisings, Great torpid grapes, all fattened
through Until their swollen girths
express Drugged to an indolence divine Apples in the orchard I am the ancient
Apple-Queen, Ah, where's
the river's hidden Gold! I love the unfolding beeches
in spring, and the pines in winter; the elms I care for afar
off, like great aloof men, whom I can admire; but for friendly
confidences give me an apple tree in an old green meadow. But what makes
seasonal fruit so scrumptious is that it is part of a rhythm,
a rhythm that allows you access to it only once a year. And,
let's face it, it's the 11 months of not having fresh strawberries
that make fresh strawberries so inviting. —Here I am, on the west
bank of the Hudson, 80 miles north of New York, near Esopus,
at the handsome, roomy, honeysuckly-and-rose-embower’d cottage
of John Burroughs. The place, the perfect June days and nights,
(leaning toward crisp and cool,) the hospitality of J. and Mrs.
B., the air, the fruit, (especially my favorite dish, currants
and raspberries, mixed, sugar’d, fresh and ripe from the bushes—I
pick ’em myself)—the room I occupy at night, the perfect bed,
the window giving an ample view of the Hudson and the opposite
shores, so wonderful toward sunset, and the rolling music of
the RR. trains, far over there—the peaceful rest—the early Venus-heralded
dawn—the noiseless splash of sunrise, the light and warmth indescribably
glorious, in which, (soon as the sun is well up,) I have a capital
rubbing and rasping with the flesh-brush—with an extra scour
on the back by Al. J., who is here with us—all inspiriting my
invalid frame with new life, for the day. Then, after some whiffs
of morning air, the delicious coffee of Mrs. B., with the cream,
strawberries, and many substantials, for breakfast. It being a mild and sunny day, the door of the fruit cellar was open, and as I came around the corner I had such of whiff of fragrance as I cannot describe. It seemed as though the vials of the earth's most precious odours had been broken there in Horace's yard! The smell of ripe apples! In the dusky depths of the cellar, down three steps, I could see Horace's ruddy face. "How are ye, David," said he. "Will ye have a Good Apple?" So he gave me a good apple. It was a yellow Bellflower without a blemish, and very large and smooth. The body of it was waxy yellow, but on the side where the sun had touched it, it blushed a delicious deep red. Since October it had been in the dark, cool storage-room, and Horace, like some old monkish connoisseur of wines who knows just when to bring up the bottles of a certain vintage, had chosen the exact moment in all the year when the vintage of the Bellflower was at its best. As he passed it to me I caught, a scent as of old crushed apple blossoms, or fancied I did or it may have been the still finer aroma of friendship which passed at the touching of our fingers. It was a hand-filling apple and likewise good for tired eyes, an antidote for winter, a remedy for sick souls. "A wonderful apple!" I said to Horace, holding it off at arm's length. "No better grown anywhere," said he, with scarcely restrained pride. I took my delight of it more nearly; and the odour was like new-cut clover in an old orchard, or strawberry leaves freshly trod upon, or the smell of peach wood at the summer pruning--how shall one describe it? at least a compound or essence of all the good odours of summer. "Shall I eat it?" I asked myself, for I thought such a perfection of nature should be preserved for the blessing of mankind. As I hesitated, Horace remarked: "It was grown to be eaten." So I bit into it, a big liberal mouthful, which came away with a rending sound such as one hears sometimes in a winter's ice-pond. The flesh within, all dewy with moisture, was like new cream, except a rim near the surface where the skin had been broken; here it was of a clear, deep yellow. New odours came forth and I knew for the first time how perfect in deliciousness such an apple could be. A mild, serene, ripe, rich bouquet, compounded essence of the sunshine from these old Massachusetts hills, of moisture drawn from our grudging soil, of all the peculiar virtues of a land where the summers make up in the passion of growth for the long violence of winter; the compensatory aroma of a life triumphant, though hedged about by severity, was in the bouquet of this perfect Bellflower . Like some of the finest of wines and the warmest of friends it was of two flavours, and was not to be eaten for mere nourishment, but was to be tasted and enjoyed. The first of the flavours came readily in a sweetness, richness, a slight acidity, that it might not cloy; but the deeper, more delicate flavour came later--if one were not crudely impatient--and was, indeed, the very soul of the fruit. One does not quickly arrive at souls either in apples or in friends. And I said to Horace with solemnity, for this was an occasion not to be lightly treated: "I have never in my life tasted a fine apple." "There is no finer apple,"
said Horace with conviction. Blossom of the apple trees! How you gleam at break of day! Through your latticed boughs
on high, When the sundown's dying brand Cease, wild winds, Look around you, look around! You have flayed us O my grey hairs! Light are the petals that fall
from the bough, The narrow bud opens her beauties
to Spring, the sweet Spring, is
the year's pleasant king; The promise of these fragrant
flowers, O fairest daughter of Eve’s
blood, Apple blossoms swing and sway, “‘Fine fruit is the
flower of commodities.’ It is the most perfect union of
the useful and the beautiful that the earth knows. Trees full
of soft foliage; blossoms fresh with spring bounty; and, finally,
fruit, rich, bloom-dusted, melting, and luscious.” Though other
things grow fair against the sun, What
plant we in this apple tree? Oh, give us pleasure in the
flowers to-day; Oh, give us pleasure in the
orchard white, Beneath these fruit-tree boughs
that shed In this sequester'd nook how
sweet The apple
orchard--where Dolly was stung by the bee--was set on a fine breezy
place at the brow of the hill with the valley in full sight. The
trees themselves were old and decayed, but they were gnarled and
crotched for easy climbing. And the apples--in particular a russet--mounted
to a delicacy. On the other side of the valley, a half mile off
as a bird would fly, were the buildings of a convent, and if you
waited you might hear the twilight bell. To this day all distant
bells come to my ears with a pleasing softness, as though they
had been cast in a quieter world. Stone arrow-heads were found
in a near-by field as often as the farmer turned up the soil in
plowing. And because of this, a long finger of land that put off
to the valley, was called Indian Point. Here, with an arm for
pillow, one might lie for a long hour on a sunny morning and watch
the shadows of clouds move across the lowland. A rooster crows
somewhere far off--surely of all sounds the drowsiest. A horse
in a field below lifts up its head and neighs. The leaves practice
a sleepy tune. If one has the fortune to keep awake, here he may
lie and think the thoughts that are born of sun and wind. A little hint dropped there or here, I do not think that skies and meadows are Thought is the blossom, Fruit, as it was our primitive, Truth is a fruit that can only be picked when
it is very ripe. You're Don't pluck a green apple; What can your eyes desire to see, your ears
to hear, your mouth to taste, your nose to smell that is not to
be had in an orchard, with abundance of variety. It’s the action, not the fruit of the
action, that’s important. You have to do the right thing.
It may not be in your power, may not be in your time, that there’ll
be any fruit. But that doesn’t mean you stop doing the right
thing. You may never know what results come from your action. Love is a fruit in season at all times, and within reach of every hand. - Mother Teresa I think that if you shake the tree, you ought
to be around when the fruit falls to pick it up. Do not be afraid to go out on a limb. . .That’s
where the fruit is. Character is like a tree and reputation like
its shadow. The shadow is what we think of it; the tree is the
real thing. We are born believing. A man bears beliefs,
as a tree bears apples. The things we now esteem fixed shall, one by
one, detach themselves, like ripe fruit, from our experience,
and fall . . . The soul looketh steadily forwards, creating a
world before her, leaving worlds behind her. Fruits are acceptable gifts, because they are
the flower of commodities, and admit of fantastic values being
attached to them. If a man should send to me to come a hundred
miles to visit him, and should set before me a basket of fine
summer-fruit, I should think there was some proportion between
the labor and the reward. Wishing to be friends is quick work, but friendship
is a slow-ripening fruit. Do a little more of that work which you have
sometimes confessed to be good, which you feel that society and
your justest judge rightly demands of you. Do what you reprove
yourself for not doing. Know that you are neither satisfied nor
dissatisfied with yourself without reason. Let me say to you and
to myself in one breath, Cultivate the tree which you have found
to bear fruit in your soil. The best of all physicians But when I undress me How many times it thundered before Franklin
took the hint! How many apples fell on Newton's head before he
took the hint! Nature is always hinting at us. It hints over and
over again. And suddenly we take the hint. I had a little nut tree, nothing would it bear An apple a day keeps the doctor away. Shakspeare, Homer, Dante, Chaucer, saw the
splendor of meaning that plays over the visible world; knew that
a tree had another use than for apples, and corn another than
for meal, and the ball of the earth, than for tillage and roads:
that these things bore a second and finer harvest to the mind,
being emblems of its thoughts, and conveying in all their natural
history a certain mute commentary on human life. Gentle, here. Her heart is being peeled like a piece of fruit. - William Shakespeare, Twelfth Night Without
the hall, and close upon the gate, The next variation which their visit afforded
was produced by the entrance of servants with cold meat, cake,
and a variety of all the finest fruits in season; but this did
not take place till after many a significant look and smile from
Mrs. Annesley to Miss Darcy had been given, to remind her of her
post. There was now employment for the whole party; for though
they could not all talk, they could all eat; and the beautiful
pyramids of grapes, nectarines, and peaches, soon collected them
round the table. Two apples a penny! Two for a penny! His gaze
passed over the glazed apples serried on her stand. Australians
they must be this time of year. Shiny peels: polishes them up
with a rag or a handkerchief. Apple By the lamplit stall I loitered, feasting
my eyes What wondrous life is this I lead! A poem should be palpable and mute Yet poetry, though the last and finest result,
is a natural fruit. As naturally as the oak bears an acorn, and
the vine a gourd, man bears a poem, either spoken or done. It
is the chief and most memorable success, for history is but a
prose narrative of poetic deeds. ...We divide Cantaloupes! Cantaloupes! Roses, roses, roses, buy, buy,
oh buy! Lavender, sweet lavender,
Fine China Oranges, Apples — Market Cries - A Three Part Round I. II. III. ROSE-SELLER: Who will buy my sweet
red roses? MILKMAID: Will you buy any milk
today, mistress? STRAWBERRY-SELLER: Ripe strawberries,
ripe! Ripe Strawberries ripe, Oh, they's so fresh an' fine,
an' they's jus' off the vine. Straw-ber-ry! Staw-ber-ry!
The art of doing small things well has a good illustration in the humble chair-mender of the London streets, who is also one of the most interesting of out-door tradesmen. He carries all his implements and materials with him. A very much worn chair is thrown over one arm as an advertisement of his occupation, and it is needed, for his cry, "Cha–ir–s to men–n–nd," is uttered in a melancholy and indistinct, though penetrating, tone. Under the other arm he usually has a bundle of cane, split into narrow ribbons. - St. Nicholas Magazine for Boys and Girls, Vol. 5, October 1878, No. 12 The apple is the commonest and
yet the most varied and beautiful of fruits. A dish of them is
as becoming to the centre-table in winter as was the vase of flowers
in the summer,--a bouquet of spitzenburgs and greenings and northern
spies. A rose when it blooms, the apple is a rose when it ripens.
It pleases every sense to which it can be addressed, the touch,
the smell, the sight, the taste; and when it falls, in the still
October days, it pleases the ear. It is a call to a banquet, it
is a signal that the feast is ready. The bough would fain hold
it, but it can now assert its independence; it can now live a
life of its own. Bright yellow, red, and orange,
There
is greater relish for the earliest fruit of the season. The gilding of the Indian summer
mellowed the pastures far and wide. The russet woods stood ripe
to be stript, but were yet full of leaf. The purple of heath-bloom,
faded but not withered, tinged the hills...Fieldhead gardens bore
the seal of gentle decay; ...its time of flowers and even of fruit
was over. Apple trees, on the other hand,
grow old without reproach. Let them live as long as they may,
and contort themselves into whatever perversity of shape they
please, and deck their withered limbs with a springtime gaudiness
of pink blossoms, still they are respectable, even if they afford
us only an apple or two in a season. Those few apples—or, at all
events, the remembrance of apples in bygone years—are the atonement
which utilitarianism inexorably demands for the privilege of lengthened
life. Human flower shrubs, if they will grow old on earth, should,
besides their lovely blossoms, bear some kind of fruit that will
satisfy earthly appetites, else neither man nor the decorum of
nature will deem it fit that the moss should gather on them. As Ichabod jogged slowly on his
way, his eye, ever open to every symptom of culinary abundance,
ranged with delight over the treasures of jolly autumn. On all
sides he beheld vast store of apples; some hanging in oppressive
opulence on the trees; some gathered into baskets and barrels
for the market; others heaped up in rich piles for the cider-press.
Farther on he beheld great fields of Indian corn, with its golden
ears peeping from their leafy coverts, and holding out the promise
of cakes and hasty pudding; and the yellow pumpkins lying beneath
them, turning up their fair round bellies to the sun, and giving
ample prospects of the most luxurious of pies; and anon he passed
the fragrant buckwheat fields, breathing the odor of the beehive,
and as he beheld them, soft anticipations stole over his mind
of dainty slapjacks, well buttered, and garnished with honey or
treacle, by the delicate little dimpled hand of Katrina Van Tassel.
She had only to stand in the orchard, to put
her hand on a little crab tree and look up at the apples, to make
you feel the goodness of planting and tending and harvesting at
last. Look on yonder earth: Harvest-time; "The spirits of the air live on the smells Of no distemper, of no blast he died, Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, Lo! sweeten’d with the summer light, It was a peaceful autumn day. The gilding of
the Indian summer mellowed the pastures far and wide. The russet
woods stood ripe to be stript, but were yet full of leaf. The
purple of heath-bloom, faded but not withered, tinged the hills.
The beck wandered down to the Hollow, through a silent district;
no wind followed its course, or haunted its woody borders. Fieldhead
gardens bore the seal of gentle decay. On the walks, swept that
morning, yellow leaves had fluttered down again. Its time of flowers,
and even of fruits, was over, but a scantling of apples enriched
the trees; only a blossom here and there expanded pale and delicate
amidst a knot of faded leaves. Falltime and winter apples take on the smolder
of the five-o’clock November sunset: falltime, leaves, bonfires,
stubble, the old things go, and the earth is grizzled. The land
and the people hold memories, even among the anthills and the
angleworms, among the toads and woodroaches—among gravestone writings
rubbed out by the rain—they keep old things that never grow old. A Winter Season - Thoughts of Trees, Sleep and Pastoral Fruits The apple is indeed the fruit
of youth. As we grow old we crave apples less. It is an ominous
sign. When you are ashamed to be seen eating them on the street;
when you can carry them in your pocket and your hand not constantly
find its way to them; when your neighbor has apples and you have
none, and you make no nocturnal visits to his orchard; when your
lunch-basket is without them, and you can pass a winter's night
by the fireside with not thought of the fruit at your elbow,--then
be assured you are no longer a boy, either in heart or in years. Midst bitten mead and acre shorn, But here within our orchard-close, O valiant Earth, O happy year And hangs aloft from tree to tree All the complicated details He comes, - he comes, - the Frost
Spirit comes! I love those skies, thin blue
or snowy gray, During the month of December 1820,
I accompanied a much-beloved and honoured Friend in a walk through
different parts of his estate, with a view to fix upon the site
of a new Church which he intended to erect. It was one of the
most beautiful mornings of a mild season,--our feelings were in
harmony with the cherishing influences of the scene; and such
being our purpose, we were naturally led to look back upon past
events with wonder and gratitude, and on the future with hope.
Not long afterwards, some of the Sonnets which will be found towards
the close of this series were produced as a private memorial of
that morning's occupation. Primitive Saxon Clergy 'Tis education forms the common
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Cherries-O!
