trees 
When all the world is young, lad, And all the trees are green; And every goose a swan, lad, And every lass a queen; Then hey for boot and horse, lad, And round the world away: Young blood must have its course, lad, And every dog his day.
The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees, The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas, The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor, And the highwayman came ridingö Ridingöridingö The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.
My love for Linton is like the foliage in the woods. Time will changeit,I'mwellaware, aswinterchangesthetrees. My Love for Heathcliff resembles the eternal rocks beneathöa source of little visible delight but necessary. Nelly, I am Heathcliff.
The force that through the green fuse drives the flower Drives my green age; that blasts the roots of trees Is my destroyer. And I am dumb to tell the crooked rose My youth is bent by the same wintry fever.
In my childhood trees were green And there was plenty to be seen. Come back early or never come.
The easy Eden-dreamtime then in a country of birds and trees made me your shadow-sister, child, dark girl I couldn't play with.
I wandered lonelyas a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host, of golden daffodils; Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
He could not die when the trees were green, For he loved the time too well.
I climbed a hill as light fell short, And rooks came home in scramble sort, And filled the trees and flapped and fought And sang themselves to sleep.
I remember, I remember, The fir trees dark and high; I used to think their slender tops Were close against the sky: It was a childish ignorance, But now 'tis little joy To know I'm farther off from heav'n Than when I was a boy.
Have you seen the bush by moonlight, from the train, go running by? Blackened log and stump and sapling, ghostly trees all dead and dry; Here a patch of glassy water; there a glimpse of mystic sky? Have you heard the still voice callingöyet so warm, and yet so cold: 'I'm the Mother-Bush that bore you! Come to me when you are old'?
Autumn wind rises; white clouds fly. Grass and trees wither; geese go south.
You will be home before the leaves have fallen from the trees.
There is continual spring, and harvest there Continual, both meeting at one time: For both the boughs do laughing blossoms bear, And with fresh colours deck the wanton prime, And eke attonce the heavy trees they climb, Which seem to labour under their fruits load: The whiles the joyous birds make their pastime Amongst the shady leaves, their sweet above, And their true loves without suspicion tell abroad.
In ten thousand years the Sierras Will be dryand dead, home of the scorpion. Ice-scratched slabs and bent trees. No paradise, no fall, Only the weathering land The wheeling sky, Man, with his Satan Scouring the chaos of the mind. Oh Hell!
So that in the end there were the trees. The boy walking through them with his head drooping as he increased in stature. Putting out shoots of green thought. So that, in the end, there was no end.
Loveliest of trees, the cherry now Is hung with bloom along the bough, And stands about the woodland ride Wearing white for Eastertide.
And thushit passes onfrome Candylmasuntyll Ester, that the moneth of May was com, whan every lusty harte begynnith to blossom and to burgyne. For, lyke as trees and erbys burgenyth and florysshyth in May, lyke wyse every lusty harte that is ony maner of lover spryngith, burgenyth, buddyth, and florysshyth in lusty dedis.
Say, has some wet bird-haunted English lawn Lent it the music of its trees at dawn?
Of all the trees that grow so fair, Old England to adorn, Greater are none beneath the Sun, Than Oak, and Ash, and Thorn.
I am born of the conquerors, you of the persecuted. Raped by rum and an alien law, progress and economics, are you and I and a once-loved land peopled by tribes and trees; doomed traders and stock-exchanges, bought by faceless strangers.
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 coition: it is the foolishest act a wise man commits in all his life.
The riverbed, dried-up, half full of leaves. Us, listening to a river in the trees.
And he looked up, and said, I see men as trees, walking.
Jolly boating weather And a hay-harvest breeze, Blade on the feather, Shade off the trees; Swing, swing together, With your body between your knees.
The shady trees cover him with their shadow; the willows of the brook compass him about. Behold, he drinketh up a river, and hasteth not: he trusteth that he can draw up Jordan into his mouth.
Till I, high in the tower of my time Among familiar ruins, began to cry For accident, sickness, justice, war and crime, Because all died, because I had to die. The snow fell, the trees stood, the promise kept, And a child I slept.
It's really the result of talking to trees too often.
The stately homes of England, How beautiful they stand! Amid their tall ancestral trees, O'er all the pleasant land. See Coward 239:18.
As we rush, as we rush in the train, The trees and the houses go wheeling back, But the starry heavens above that plain Come flying on our track.
I must be mad, or very tired, When the curve of a blue bay beyond a railroad track Is shrill and sweet to me like the sudden springing of a tune, And the sight of a white church above thin trees in a city square Amazes my eyes as though it were the Parthenon.
Below him, in the town among the trees, Where friends of other days had honored him, A phantom salutation of the dead Rang thinly till old Eben's eyes were dim.
No pleasing Intricacies intervene, No artful wildness to perplex the scene; Grove nods at grove, each a mirror of the other. The suff'ring eye inverted Nature sees, Trees cut to Statues, Statues thick as trees, With here a Fountain, never to be play'd, And there a Summer-house, that knows no shade; Here Amphitrite sails thro'myrtle bow'rs There Gladiators fight, or die, in flow'rs Un-water'd see the drooping sea-horse mourn, And swallows roost in Nilus'dusty Urn.
Out of the fertile ground he caused to grow All trees of noblest kind for sight, smell, taste; And all amid them stood theTree of Life, High eminent, blooming ambrosial fruit Of vegetable gold; and next to life Our death theTree of Knowledge grew fast by, Knowledge of good bought dear by knowing ill.
For ye shall go out with joy, and be led forth with peace: the mountains and the hills shall break forth before you into singing, and all the trees of the field shall clap their hands.
I like trees because they seem more resigned to the way they have to live than other things do.
You see how when rivers are swollen in winter those trees that yield to the flood retain their branches, but those that offer resistance perish, trunk and all.
As for meöfor me, the grass grew longer, and more sorrowful, and the trees were surfaced like flesh, and girls were no longer to be treated lightly but were creatures of commanding sadness, and all journeys through the valley were now made alone, with passion in every bush, and the motions of wind and cloud and stars were suddenly for myself alone, and voices elected me of all men living and called me to deliver the world, and I groaned from solitude, blushed when I stumbled, loved strangers and bread and butter, and made long trips through the rain on my bicycle, stared wretchedly through lighted windows, grinned wryly to think how little I was known, and lived in a state of raging excitement.
The dark notes rose everywhere, so dark, so sombre, they broke into a fountainölight as the rainbowö sparkling and immaterial as invisible sources and echoes. The savannahs grew lonelyas the sea and broke again into a wave and forest. Tall trees with black marching boots and feet were clad in the spurs and sharp wings of a butterfly.
Do not expect again a phoenix hour, The triple-towered sky, the dove complaining, Sudden the rain of gold and heart's first ease Traced under trees by the eldritch light of sundown.
So have I heard the cuckoo's parting cry, From the wet field, through the vext garden trees, Come with the volleying rain and tossing breeze: 'The bloom isgone, and with the bloom go I.'
Your ghost will walk, you lover of trees, (If love remains) In an English lane.
A slumber did my spirit seal; I had no human fears: She seemed a thing that could not feel The touch of earthly years. No motion has she now, no force; She neither hears nor sees; Rolled round in earth's diurnal course With rocks, and stones and trees.
Browse dictionary entries near trees
- ‹ treenail
- ‹ treen
- ‹ treehouse
- ‹ treehopper
- ‹ treed
- ‹ tree topology
- ‹ tree toad
- ‹ tree surgery
- ‹ tree squirrel
- ‹ tree shrew
Print this Page
Suggestion Box
Send to Friend
