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