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“My troubles are all over, and I am at home; and often before I am quite awake, I fancy I am still in the orchard at Birtwick, standing with my old friends under the apple trees.”
― Anna Sewell, Black Beauty

“Do you remember the Shire, Mr. Frodo? It'll be spring soon. And the orchards will be in blossom. And the birds will be nesting in the hazel thicket. And they'll be sowing the summer barley in the lower fields... and eating the first of the strawberries with cream. Do you remember the taste of strawberries?”
― J.R.R. Tolkien, The Return of the King

“A cold wind raced across the surrounding fields of wild grass, turning the land into a heaving dark-green ocean. It sighed up through the branches of cherry trees and rattled the thick leaves. Sometimes a cherry would break loose, tumble in the gale, fall and split, filling the night with its fragrance. The air was iron and loam and growth.

He walked and tried to pull these things into his lungs, the silence and coolness of them.

But someone was screaming, deep inside him. Someone was talking. ("Hunger")”
― Charles Beaumont, Shock!

“Strawberries are full of love & happiness.”
― Anthony T. Hincks

“Five girls sat beside, and upon the branches of, the oldest apple tree in the orchard, its huge trunk making a fine seat and support; and whenever the May breeze blew, the pink blossoms tumbled down like snow, coming to rest in their hair and on their skirts. The afternoon sunlight dappled green and silver and gold through the leaves in the apple orchard.”
― Neil Gaiman, Stardust

“Anyone who has a garden, park or orchard tree has an opportunity to ensure that it offers protection, brings beauty and bears fruit for future generations. In short, every one of us should aspire to be a forester.”
― Gabriel Hemery, The New Sylva: A Discourse of Forest and Orchard Trees for the Twenty-First Century

“What the light looks like in the pear trees, in October, is a hundred teardrops of gold, the whole orchard weeping.”
― Carole Maso, The Art Lover

“A soaking rain had just stopped, and his boots sank deeply into the nitrogen-rich soil. The entire orchard smelled of wet wood and ripe fruit. It was a strong dizzying scent, and nothing else was quite like it- though his grandfather used to say this smell was identical to the limestone caves of Lower Normandy: cold and dripping, where cask upon cask of Calvados, the great fortified apple brandy of Norman lords, slept away the years.”
― Jeffrey Stepakoff, The Orchard

“Only a craven would steal a fruit when he could take the orchard.”
― George R.R. Martin, A Feast for Crows

“I work hard in the orchard, not for the money anymore, but for something I can't explain. Something worth more than money.”
― Steven Herrick, A Place Like This

“My mother had a passion for all fruit except oranges, which she refused to allow in the house. She named each one of us, on a seeming whim, after a fruit and a recipe- Cassis, for her thick black-currant cake. Framboise, her raspberry liqueur, and Reinette after the reine-claude greengages that grew against the south wall of the house, thick as grapes, syrupy with wasps in midsummer. At one time we had over a hundred trees (apples, pears, plums, gages, cherries, quinces), not to mention the raspberry canes and the fields of strawberries, gooseberries, currants- the fruits of which were dried, stored, made into jams and liqueurs and wonderful cartwheel tarts on pâte brisée and crème pâtissière and almond paste. My memories are flavored with their scents, their colors, their names. My mother tended them as if they were her favorite children. Smudge pots against the frost, which we base every spring. And in summer, to keep the birds away, we would tie shapes cut out of silver paper onto the ends of the branches that would shiver and flick-flack in the wind, moose blowers of string drawn tightly across empty tin cans to make eerie bird-frightening sounds, windmills of colored paper that would spin wildly, so that the orchard was a carnival of baubles and shining ribbons and shrieking wires, like a Christmas party in midsummer. And the trees all had names.
Belle Yvonne, my mother would say as she passed a gnarled pear tree. Rose d'Aquitane. Beurre du Roe Henry. Her voice at these times was soft, almost monotone. I could not tell whether she was speaking to me or to herself. Conference. Williams. Ghislane de Penthièvre. This sweetness.”
― Joanne Harris, Five Quarters of the Orange

“How to choose an orchard plant from the nursery: Bring a stereo, play some Mozart, and whichever one dances the liveliest, that's the one you take back home to meet your ducks. You could play Beethoven, but he was deaf, so his music is a little too Helen Kelleresque for my taste.”
― Jarod Kintz, Music is fluid, and my saxophone overflows when my ducks slosh in the sounds I make in elevators.

“The stones had come from their orchard, unearthed when the first generation of Lunds began planting the orchard four generations ago. The stones varied in color and shape, from light gray limestone to rusty red granite, each highlighted by the golden light. Above the inset wooden mantel hung a huge collage of watercolor paintings, comprised of six-inch squares, each showcasing a different variety of apple grown in the orchard set against a distinguishing hue.”
― Amy E. Reichert, The Simplicity of Cider

“Pears are pear-shaped, not because they went wrong. They're pear-shaped because they're beautifully delicious.”
― Anthony T. Hincks

“In the last spring I ever knew,
In those last days,
I sat in the forsaken orchard
Where beyond fields of greenery shimmered
The hills at Miller's Ford;
Just to muse on the apple tree
With its ruined trunk and blasted branches,
And shoots of green whose delicate blossoms
Were sprinkled over the skeleton tangle,
Never to grow in fruit.
And there was I with my spirit girded
By the flesh half dead, the senses numb,
Yet thinking of youth and the earth in youth,-
Such phantom blossoms palely shining
Over the lifeless boughs of Time.
O earth that leaves us ere heaven takes us!
Had I been only a tree to shiver
With dreams of spring and a leafy youth,
Then I had fallen in the cyclone
Which swept me out of the soul's suspense
Where it's neither earth nor heaven.”
― Edgar Lee Masters, Spoon River Anthology

“enter an orchard before autumn
dots the entire land and taste
the tangerine inside a pumpkin.”
― Sneha Subramanian Kanta

“The orchard smelled thick: Scents of mud, buds, insects, and early-blooming flowers overlapped one another. Murphy had spent all her life breathing the aroma of fry grease and parking lot weeds. Squirrels darted up and down the trees, and rabbits and the occasional groundhog watched Murphy work, reminding her that the orchard was the world to them, that they’d never seen Taco Bell and would never be roadkill. It was actually comforting. It was still earth, but without the crap.”
― Jodi Lynn Anderson, Peaches

“The peaches, abundantly nestled in their leaves, were fully grown, but they had a greenish tinge to them, with just a pale blush covering each one in soft pink. Bobwhites and finches were flitting in and out of some of the branches and through the rows. There was a rapping somewhere far away, probably a woodpecker. And lots of buzzing.
"Not ripe yet," Murphy said.
"Second week of June," Leeda replied. They knew it all by heart---which varieties ripened when, even which trees ripened faster than others because of where they sat; on a hill, in a dip, in fuller sun, closer to water. Murphy had forgotten what so much green looked like and how alive everything felt. Life even had a smell. Flowers and grass and the smell of wood.”
― Jodi Lynn Anderson, Love and Peaches

“It was lovely to be among the apple trees, with the morning breeze riffling their leaves. The apples were warm from the sun, and at least half were already red, splashed with threads of gold. The trees were old ones, Mr. Miller had told me, a heritage variety. The apples were Baldwins, introduced to the Northwest in the early part of the century. I already knew them to be sweet and crisp, and once my basket was full, I picked one more to eat on the spot.”
― Louisa Morgan, The Witch's Kind

“The Smokehouse variety were beginning to ripen in their rows at the far end of the orchard, where the hill sloped more sharply. She pulled one down from the tree; it resisted and the stem snapped off. She pulled another, holding both of the small fruits in one hand. Tinged rose red and washed in gold, and just as bright in flavor, they were among her favorites.”
― Rowenna Miller, The Fairy Bargains of Prospect Hill

“This Orchard Is My Universe by Stewart Stafford

This orchard is my universe,
The apples, planets aligned,
Pips form a fertile starfield,
Juice waves crash behind.

Leaves fall as dying comets,
Avian asteroids zigzag wild,
Squirrels as planetary dust,
Moles, lunar cratering, mild.

Solar storm bows and enters,
Green-fingered power dearth,
Houston's black hole problem,
This astronaut sucked to Earth.

© Stewart Stafford, 2024. All rights reserved.”
― Stewart Stafford

“Cut down no trees, for they are home to the birds you adore.”
― Michael Bassey Johnson, These Words Pour Like Rain