It is not their bones or hide or tallow that I love most. It is the living spirit of the tree, not its spirit of turpentine, with ...which I sympathize, and which heals my cuts. It is as immortal as I am, and perchance will go to as high a heaven, there to tower above me still.LESSATTRIBUTION DETAIL »
The tree the tempest with a crash of wood Throws down in front of us is not to bar... Our passage to our journey's end for good, But just to ask us who we think we are....LESSATTRIBUTION DETAIL »
Tree at my window, window tree, My sash is lowered when night comes on;... But let there never be curtain drawn Between you and me.LESSATTRIBUTION DETAIL »
On Thursday morning going through the quiet woods... it is not Thursday. To dwellers in a wood almost every species of tree has its voice as well as its feature. At the passing of the breeze the fir-trees sob and moan no less distinctly than they rock; the holly whistles as it battles with itself; the ash hisses amid its quiverings; the beech rustles while its flat boughs rise and fall. And winter, which modifies the note of such trees as shed their leaves, does not destroy its individuality.LESSATTRIBUTION DETAIL »
There was once a man who said, "God... Must think it exceedingly odd If he finds that this tree Continues to be When there's no one about in the Quad."LESSATTRIBUTION DETAIL »