They hide, they may hide,
in the shadows of this tangled orchard;
under the grass or the briars,
under the rough, blazed, history
in the limbs blessed to carry
every pass of the years and frost.
They hide, they always hide,
with unsated thoughts to hew.
So as and if these final years fall on the ground,
are wasted on the rot
and not consumed, collected,
fed to the new,
as and if these fruits are wasted
at least they fell in the orchard.