When riding to the sulphur springs
In California as a boy,
I used to pick an orange from
A tree beside the road.
Near Jericho, when older, I
Drove past, I think, an orange grove
On going to that palace where
Arab mosaics were.
At Holkham Hall the orangery
Stands sheltered from the North Sea air,
But oranges do not appear
Between the windows there.
I like the orange trees that bloom
At Christmas, with dwarf orange fruit,
Which look like Chinese jewels of jade
Too beautiful to touch.
Cointreau, an eau de vie infused
With orange, has no orange hue,
Yet, colourless, preserves its taste -
Orange gone crystalline.
At breakfast now they wait on view,
Halved oranges from Palestine,
Which glow the same as those that grew
I do not think that I can say
Much more, on this grey winter day,
Of oranges - except that they
Seem brought from Paradise.