Where is the pride of Summer,--the green prime,--
The many, many leaves all twinkling?--three
On the mossed read more

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?

Either make the tree food, and his fruit good; or else make the
tree corrupt, and his fruit corrupt: read more

Either make the tree food, and his fruit good; or else make the
tree corrupt, and his fruit corrupt: for the tree is known by
his fruit.

As by the way of innuendo
Lucus is made a non lucendo.

As by the way of innuendo
Lucus is made a non lucendo.

The forest laments in order that Mr. Gladstone may perspire.

The forest laments in order that Mr. Gladstone may perspire.

Stranger, if thou hast learned a truth which needs
No school of long experience, that the world
read more

Stranger, if thou hast learned a truth which needs
No school of long experience, that the world
Is full of guilt and misery, and hast seen
Enough of all its sorrows, crimes and cares,
To tire thee of it, enter this wild wood
And view the haunts of Nature. The calm shade
Shall bring a kindred calm, and the sweet breeze
That makes the green leaves dance, shall waft a balm
To thy sick heart.

If the clouds be full of rain, they empty themselves upon the
earth: and if the tree fall toward read more

If the clouds be full of rain, they empty themselves upon the
earth: and if the tree fall toward the south, or toward the
north, in the place where the tree falleth, there it shall be.

It is not growing like a tree
In bulk, doth make man better be;
Or standing long read more

It is not growing like a tree
In bulk, doth make man better be;
Or standing long an oak, three hundred year,
To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere:
A lily of a day
Is fairer far in May,
Although it falls and die that night--
It was the plant and flower of Light.

I think that I shall never see
A poem as lovely as a tree.
. . . read more

I think that I shall never see
A poem as lovely as a tree.
. . . .
Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.

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

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