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Under the greenwood tree Who loves to lie with me, And turn his merry note Unto the sweet bird's throat, Come hither, come hither, come hither. Here shall he see no enemy But winter and rough weather. - William Shakespeare, As You Like It (Amiens at II, v) Who am no more but as the tops of trees, Which fence the roots they grow by and defend them-- Make both my body pine and soul to languish, And punish that before that he would punish. - William Shakespeare, Pericles Prince of Type (Pericles at I, ii) These two have ticed me hither to this place, A barren detested vale you see it is; The trees, though summer, yet forlorn and lean, Overcome with moss and baleful mistletoe. - William Shakespeare, Titus Andronicus (Tamora at II, iii) These two have ticed me hither to this place, A barren detested vale you see it is; The trees, though summer, yet forlorn and lean, Overcome with moss and baleful mistletoe. - William Shakespeare, Titus Andronicus (Tamora at II,iii) All the tree-tops lay asleep, like green waves on the sea. - Percy Bysshe Shelley Now all the tree-tops lay asleep, Like green waves on the sea, As still as in the silent deep The ocean-woods may be. - Percy Bysshe Shelley, The Recollection (II) A large, branching, aged oak is perhaps the most venerable of all inanimate objects. - William Shenstone The works of a person that begin immediately to decay, while those of him who plants begin directly to improve. In this, planting promises a more lasting pleasure than building; which, were it to remain in equal perfection, would at best begin to moulder and want repairs in imagination. Now trees have a circumstance that suits our taste, and that is annual variety. - William Shenstone And winter, that grand old harper, smote his thunder-harp of pines. - Alexander Smith Trees are your best antiques. - Alexander Smith The trees were gazing up into the sky, Their bare arms stretched in prayer for the snows. - Alexander Smith, A Life-Drama (sc. 2) The dureful oak, whose sap is not yet dried. - Edmund Spenser The osier good for twigs, the poplar for the mill. - Edmund Spenser The laurell, meed of mightie, conquerours And poets sage; the firre that weepeth still; The willow, worne of forlorne paramours; The eugh, obedient to the bender's will; The birch, for shafts; the sallow for the mill; The mirrhe sweete-bleeding in the bitter wound; The warlike beech; the ash for nothing ill; The fruitfull olive; and the platane round; The carver holme; the maple seldom inward sound. - Edmund Spenser, The Faerie Queene (bk. I, canto I, st. 8) What planter will attempt to yoke a sapling with a falling oak? - Jonathan Swift A temple whose transepts are measured by miles, Whose chancel has morning for priest, Whose floor-work the foot of no spoiler defiles, Whose musical silence no music beguiles, No festivals limit its feast. - Algernon Charles Swinburne, Palace of Pan (st. 8) A tree in the desert is still a tree. - The Talmud Next to ye both I love the palm, with his leaves of beauty, his fruit of balm. - Bayard Taylor The woods appear With crimson blotches deeply dashed and crossed,-- Sign of the fatal pestilence of Frost. - Bayard Taylor, Mon-Da-Min (st. 38) In lands of palm and southern pine; in lands of palm, of orange-blossom, of olive, aloe, and maize, and wine. - Lord Alfred Tennyson The linden broke her ranks and rent The woodbine wreathes that bind her, And down the middle buzz! she went With all her bees behind her! The poplars, in long order due, With cypress promenaded, The shock-head willows two and two By rivers gallopaded. - Lord Alfred Tennyson, Amphion (st. 5) The woods are hush'd, their music is no more; The leaf is dead, the yearning past away; New leaf, new life--the days of frost are o'er; New life, new love, to suit the newer day: New loves are sweet as those that went before: Free love--free field--we love but while we may. - Lord Alfred Tennyson, Idylls of the King--The Last Tournament (l. 276) Now rings the woodland loud and long, The distance takes a lovelier hue, And drowned in yonder living blue The lark becomes a sightless song. - Lord Alfred Tennyson, In Memoriam (pt. CXV) O Love, what hours were thine and mine, In lands of palm and southern pine; In lands of palm, of orange-blossom, Of olive, aloe, and maize, and vine. - Lord Alfred Tennyson, The Daisy (st. 1) But see the fading many-coloured Woods, Shade deep'ning over shade, the country round Imbrown; crowned umbrage, dusk and dun, Of every hue from wan declining green To sooty dark. - James Thomson (1), Seasons--Autumn (l. 950) Displaying page 4 of 5 for this topic: << Prev Next >> 1 2 3 [4] 5
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