Oh, leave this barren spot to me! Spare, woodman, space the beechen tree!

Where is the pride of Summer,--the green prime,-- The many, many leaves all twinkling?--three On the mossed elm; three on the naked lime Trembling,--and one upon the old oak tree! Where is the Dryad's immortality?

To dwellers in a wood, almost every species of tree has its voice as well as its feature.

When trees burn, they leave the smell of heartbreak in the air.

I could be content that we might procreate like trees, without conjunction, or that there were any way to perpetuate the World without this trivial and vulgar way of union: it is the foolishest act a wise man commits in all his life; nor is there any

An original something, dear maid, you would wish me to write; but how shall I begin? For I'm sure I have not original in me, Excepting Original Sin