Part 3 — AN ORCHARD AT AVIGNON
Reading edition
The hills are white, but not with snow: They are as pale in summer time, For herb or grass may never grow Upon their slopes of lime.
Within the circle of the hills A ring, all flowering in a round, An orchard-ring of almond fills The plot of stony ground.
More fair than happier trees, I think, Grown in well-watered pasture land These parched and stunted branches, pink Above the stones and sand.
O white, austere, ideal place, Where very few will care to come, Where spring hath lost the waving grace She wears for us at home!
Fain would I sit and watch for hours The holy whiteness of thy hills, Their wreath of pale auroral flowers, Their peace the silence fills.
A place of secret peace thou art, Such peace as in an hour of pain One moment fills the amazed heart, And never comes again.
A. Mary F. Robinson [1857-