The Little Green Orchard

Some one is always sitting there,

In the little green orchard;

Even when the sun is high

In noon's unclouded sky,

And faintly droning goes

The bee from rose to rose,

Some one in shadow is sitting there

In the little green orchard.

Yes, when the twilight's falling softly

On the little green orchard;

When the grey dew distills

And every flower-cup fills;

When the last blackbird says,

"What—what!" and goes her way—ssh!

I have heard voices calling softly

In the little green orchard

Not that I am afraid of being there,

In the little green orchard;

Why, when the moon's been bright,

Shedding her lonesome light,

And moths like ghosties come,

And the horned snail leaves home:

I've sat there, whispering and listening there,

In the little green orchard.

Only it's strange to be feeling there,

In the little green orchard;

Whether you paint or draw,

Dig, hammer, chop or saw;

When you are most alone,

All but the silence gone. . .

Some one is watching and waiting there,

In the little green orchard.