Loveliest of trees, the cherry now Is hung with bloom along the bough.
The wild Bee reels from bough to bough With his furry coat and his gauzy wing, Now in a lily cup, and now Setting a jacinth bell a-swing, In his wandering.
Sorrow prepares you for joy. It violently sweeps everything out of your house, so that new joy can find space to enter. It shakes the yellow leaves from the bough of your heart, so that fresh, green leaves can grow in their place. It pulls up the rotten roots, so that new roots hidden beneath have room to grow. Whatever sorrow shakes from your heart, far better things will take their place.
A book of verses underneath the bough, A jug of wine, a loaf of bread-and thou.
I shall have peace, as leafy trees are peaceful when rain bends down the bough; And I shall be more silent and cold hearted than you are now.
As fall the light autumnal leaves, one still the other following, till the bough strews all its honors on the earth below.
What is more cheerful, now, in the fall of the year, than an open-wood-fire? Do you hear those little chirps and twitters coming out of that piece of apple-wood? Those are the ghosts of the robins and blue-birds that sang upon the bough when it was in blossom last Spring. In Summer whole flocks of them come fluttering about the fruit-trees under the window: so I have singing birds all the year round.
Woodman, spare that tree! Touch not a single bough! In youth it sheltered me, And I'll protect it now.
The tree is stripped, All color, fragrance gone, Yet already on the bough, Uncaring spring!
Passion makes the old medicine new: Passion lops off the bough of weariness. Passion is the elixir that renews: how can there be weariness when passion is present? Oh, don't sigh heavily from fatigue: seek passion, seek passion, seek passion!
Now the autumn shudders In the rose's root. Far and wide the ladders Lean among the fruit. Now the autumn clambers Up the trellised frame, And the rose remembers The dust from which it came. Brighter than the blossom On the rose's bough Sits the wizened orange, Bitter berry now; Beauty never slumbers; All is in her name; But the rose remembers The dust from which it came.
Birds sing on a bare bough; O, believer, canst not thou?
Merrily, merrily shall I live now, Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.
Trees have as much individuality as human beings. Not even two spruces are alike. There is always some kink or curve or bend of bough to single each one out from its fellows.
