Woodland Poetry

The world is full of beautiful spaces. There has never been a doubt that a woodland is one of them. I have had a love for trees since my childhood, when I spent many holidays discovering beauty of woodland walks with my Grandad. Nowadays, a walk in a woodland gives me a much needed escape from reality. It takes me to a different world. The world that is full of tranquility and wonder - the fresh smells, the soothing sound of wind in the leaves, a birdsong, the feel of texture of the bark, the dappled light flickering through the woodland canopy.

There is something very soothing about a huge familiar object that is so full of life and just quietly nurtures all the things that live within its canopy.

Fiona Stafford
I rest me deep within the wood,
Drawn by its silent call,
Far from the throbbing crowd of men
On nature's breast I fall.

My couch is sweet with blossoms fair,
A bed of fragrant dreams,
And soft upon my ear there falls
The lullaby of streams.

The tumult of my heart is stilled,
Within this sheltered spot,
Deep in the bosom of the wood,
Forgetting, and — forgot!

Georgia Douglas Johnson

It is not so much for its beauty that the forest makes a claim upon men's hearts, as for that subtle something, that quality of air that emanation from old trees, that so wonderfully changes and renews a weary spirit.

Robert Louis Stevenson
I sometimes think that thus was born the world —
Not like a blinding sun from chaos hurled
To blaze and burn for ages — that it woke
As wakes the forest, wakes the verdant oak,
Breathing soft breezes, wreathed in lacy mist
Through which there burst the gleam of amethyst.

The forest morn! Across the night profound
Steals now the music of harmonious sound —
The bird's faint twitter, sleepy, sleepy still,
The bird's first carol, sweet, all sweet and shrill;
And down through branches, poured in generous streams,
Come tints of dawn, the colors of our dreams.

Douglas Malloch

I tried to discover, in the rumour of forests and waves, words that other men could not hear.

Gustav Flaubert
Around me the trees stir in their leaves
and call out, “Stay awhile.”
The light flows from their branches.
And they call again, “It’s simple,” they say,
“and you too have come
into the world to do this, to go easy, to be filled
with light, and to shine.”

Mary Oliver

It is not so much for its beauty that the forest makes a claim upon men's hearts, as for that subtle something, that quality of air that emanation from old trees, that so wonderfully changes and renews a weary spirit.

Robert Louis Stevenson
I sang my songs for the rest,
For you I am still;
The tree of my song is bare
On its shining hill.

For you came like a lordly wind,
And the leaves were whirled
Far as forgotten things
Past the rim of the world.

The tree of my song stands bare
Against the blue -
I gave my songs to the rest,
Myself to you.

Sara Teasdale

Anyone who thinks fallen leaves are dead has never watched them dancing on a windy day.

Shaira Tamir

Often I walked in the neighbouring forest of fir and pine, whose beauties, wonderful winter solitudes, seemed to protect me from the onset of despair. Ineffably kind voices spoke down to me from the trees: “You must not come to the hard conclusion that everything in the world is hard, false, and wicked. But come often to us; the forest likes you. In its company you will find health and good spirits again, and entertain more lofty and beautiful thoughts.”

Robert Walser
And see the peaceful trees extend
their myriad leaves in leisured dance -
they bear the weight of sky and cloud
upon the fountain of their veins.

Kathleen Raine
I part the out thrusting branches
and come in beneath
the blessed and the blessing trees.
Though I am silent
there is singing around me.
Though I am dark
there is vision around me.
Though I am heavy
there is flight around me.

Wendell Berry
falling into the mist
through colorful trees
on wings of love

becoming a part
of colors ablaze
in autumn's leaves

holding each color
with floating kisses
on sighs of feathers

Bodhi Smith

The woods carry sounds in their slow rhythms, sounds that only a heart can hear.

Kira Jane Buxton
The trees are coming into leaf
Like something almost being said;
The recent buds relax and spread,
Their greenness is a kind of grief.

Is it that they are born again
And we grow old? No, they die too,
Their yearly trick of looking new
Is written down in rings of grain.

Yet still the unresting castles thresh
In fullgrown thickness every May.
Last year is dead, they seem to say,
Begin afresh, afresh, afresh.

Philip Larkin
I went to the Wood of Flowers
(No one was with me):
I was there alone for hours.
I was happy as could be
In the Wood of Flowers.

There was grass on the ground,
There were buds on the tree,
And the wind had a sound
Of such gaiety,
That I was as happy
As happy could be,
In the Wood of Flowers.

James Stephens

There is a serene and settled majesty to woodland scenery that enters into the soul and delights and elevates it, and fills it with noble inclinations…

Washington Irving
What do the trees know?
To bend when all the wild winds blow.
Roots are deep and time is slow.
All we grasp we must let go.

What do the trees know?
Buds can weather ice and snow.
Dark gives way to sunlight's glow.
Strength and stillness help us grow.

Joyce Sidman
someday i will walk
under the soul-blossom tree
with my hand eternally woven in yours.

Sanober Khan
My Sorrow, when she's here with me,
Thinks these dark days of autumn rain
Are beautiful as days can be;
She loves the bare, the withered tree;
She walks the sodden pasture lane.

Her pleasure will not let me stay.
She talks and I am fain to list:
She's glad the birds are gone away,
She's glad her simple worsted grey
Is silver now with clinging mist.

The desolate, deserted trees,
The faded earth, the heavy sky,
The beauties she so truly sees,
She thinks I have no eye for these,
And vexes me for reason why.

Not yesterday I learned to know
The love of bare November days
Before the coming of the snow,
But it were vain to tell her so,
And they are better for her praise.

Robert Frost

I am at home among trees.

J.R.R. Tolkien
In fact, the trees are murmuring under your feet,
a buried empathy; you tread it.
High over your head,
the canopy sieves light; a conversation
you lip-read. The forest
keeps different time;
slow hours as long as your life,
so you feel human.

So you feel more human; persuaded what you are
by wordless breath of wood, reason in resin.
You might name them-
oak, ash, holly, beech, elm-
but the giants are silence alive, superior,
and now you are all instinct;
swinging the small lamp of your heart
as you venture their world:

the green, shadowy, garlic air
your ancestors breathed.
Ah, you thought love human
till you lost yourself in the forest,
but it is more strange.
These grave and patient saints
who pray and pray
and suffer your little embrace.

Carol Ann Duffy