woodlandtrust

[woodlandtrust]

'and a tree', by Kate Wakeling

and a tree is a promise safe-kept by a seed, and a tree is a dance that is swung by the breeze, and a tree is an engine spinning only on air and water and light; nothing lost, nothing spare, and a tree is a king who is topped with a crown, (and a tree never once loses touch with the ground) and a tree is a home with numberless doors, and a tree is a world for an ant to explore, and a tree is a gift (for a tree is a lung) and a tree is a song that is whispered and sung by the bees and the birds, and in rustles and creaks, yes, a tree is a song that is sung without words, and a tree is a lesson in the meaning of roots, and how out of the mud swell the sweetest of fruits, and a tree is a story of hope and repair, or perhaps more a question; a wish or a prayer, for a tree (plus a tree) shows us how we might share, and when we should grow and when we should sleep and what we could lose and what we must keep.

[woodlandtrust]

The Tree That Lives Beside the Brook, by Annette Wynne

The tree that lives beside the brook, May see itself if it should look; But perhaps it does not try. It would rather see the sky Than look into the brook and trace The shadows of its leafy face.

[woodlandtrust]

The Brave Old Oak, by Henry Fothergill Chorley

A song to the oak, the brave old oak, Who hath ruled in the greenwood long; Here’s health and renown to his broad green crown, And his fifty arms so strong. There’s fear in his frown when the sun goes down, And the fire in the west fades out; And he showeth his might on a wild midnight, When the storm through his branches shout. Then here’s to the oak, the brave old oak, Who stands in his pride alone; And still flourish he, a hale green tree, When a hundred years are gone! In the days of old, when the spring with cold Had brightened his branches gray, Through the grass at his feet crept maidens sweet, To gather the dew of May. And on that day to the rebeck gay They frolicked with lovesome swains; They are gone, they are dead, in the churchyard laid, But the tree it still remains. Then here’s to the oak, the brave old oak, Who stands in his pride alone; And still flourish he, a hale green tree, When a hundred years are gone! He saw the rare times when the Christmas chimes Were a merry sound to hear, When the squire’s wide hall and the cottage small Were filled with good English cheer. Now gold hath the sway we all obey, And a ruthless king is he; But he never shall send our ancient friend To be tossed on the stormy sea. Then here’s to the oak, the brave old oak, Who stands in his pride alone; And still flourish he, a hale green tree, When a hundred years are gone!

[woodlandtrust]

The Oak-Wood, by Nikolaus Lenau

Beneath the holy oaks I wandered Through twilight aisles where, soft and mild, I heard a brook, which there meandered, Keep lisping like a praying child. With tremors sweet my heart did flutter; The forest rustled weird and low, As if it fain would something utter Which yet I had no right to know; As if it were about revealing The secret of God's thought and will, When suddenly, His nearness feeling, It seemed affrightened—and grew still.

[woodlandtrust]

The Heart of the Woods, by John Burroughs

I hear it beat in morning still When April skies have lost their gloom, And through the woods there runs a thrill That wakes arbutus into bloom. I hear it throb in sprouting May, — A muffled murmur on the breeze, Like mellow thunder leagues away, Or booming voice of distant seas. In daisied June I catch its roll, Pulsing through the leafy shade ; And fain I am to reach its goal, And see the drummer unafraid. Or when the autumn leaves are shed, And frosts attend the fading year, Like secret mine sprung by my tread A covey bursts from hiding near. I feel its pulse ’mid winter snows, And feel my own with added force, When red-ruff drops his cautious pose, And forward takes his humming course. The startled birches shake their curls, A withered leaf leaps in the breeze ; Some hidden mortar speaks, and hurls Its feathered missile through the trees. Compact of life, of fervent wing, A dynamo of feathered power, Thy drum is music in the spring, Thy flight is music every hour.

[woodlandtrust]

Evangeline: A Tale of Acadie, by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks, Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight, Stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad and prophetic, Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms. Loud from its rocky caverns, the deep-voiced neighboring ocean Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest.

[woodlandtrust]

What do the Trees Know, by Joyce Sidman

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? Birds can weather ice and snow. Dark gives way to sunlight's glow Strength and stillness help us grow.

[woodlandtrust]

The Forest Morn, by Douglas Malloch

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.

[woodlandtrust]

The Trees, by Philip Larkin

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.

[woodlandtrust]

Sanctuary Wood, by Marcus Lane

Beech trees like cathedral pillars soar To vaulted ceilings oozing dapple-green, Where twinkling sunlight, filtering to the floor Dilutes the dusky darkness in between. A concert hall, acoustically tuned To amplify each tremorous touch of stick On wood, where silent magic is cocooned, Responding to the scuffled tap and tick From scrunching undergrowth, where dusty death And dried decay seep back to nature’s store, To resuscitate with pungent earthy breath The spirit of the leafy forest floor.

[woodlandtrust]

Winter Branches, by Margaret Widdemer

When winter-time grows weary, I lift my eyes on high And see the black trees standing, stripped clear against the sky; They stand there very silent, with the cold flushed sky behind, The little twigs flare beautiful and restful and kind; Clear-cut and certain they rise, with summer past, For all that trees can ever learn they know now, at last; Slim and black and wonderful, with all unrest gone by, The stripped tree-boughs comfort me, drawn clear against the sky.

[woodlandtrust]

Trees in a Winter Storm, by Leigh Hanes

There is no better place I know To think of trees in wind and snow Than here, where embers fall and glow... Trees bewildered now in snow: An oak that flaunts a leaf that's dead, Waving it bravely overhead As if it were a living thing. A twisted pine that tries to sing When blasts have taken by surprise. A willow tree grown windy wise, Pretending she would like to go With all the vandal drifts that blow. And there is one so human-like I shudder when the great gales strike: A tulip tree that grips a cup, Believing Spring will fill it up. There is no better place I know To think of trees in wind and snow.

[woodlandtrust]

Birches, by Robert Frost

When I see birches bend to left and right Across the lines of straighter darker trees, I like to think some boy’s been swinging them. But swinging doesn’t bend them down to stay As ice-storms do. Often you must have seen them Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning After a rain. They click upon themselves As the breeze rises, and turn many-colored As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel. Soon the sun’s warmth makes them shed crystal shells Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust— Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away You'd think the inner dome of heaven had fallen. They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load, And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed So low for long, they never right themselves: You may see their trunks arching in the woods Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair Before them over their heads to dry in the sun. But I was going to say when Truth broke in With all her matter-of-fact about the ice-storm I should prefer to have some boy bend them As he went out and in to fetch the cows— Some boy too far from town to learn baseball, Whose only play was what he found himself, Summer or winter, and could play alone. One by one he subdued his father's trees By riding them down over and over again Until he took the stiffness out of them, And not one but hung limp, not one was left For him to conquer. He learned all there was To learn about not launching out too soon And so not carrying the tree away Clear to the ground. He always kept his poise To the top branches, climbing carefully With the same pains you use to fill a cup Up to the brim, and even above the brim. Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish, Kicking his way down through the air to the ground. So was I once myself a swinger of birches. And so I dream of going back to be. It’s when I’m weary of considerations, And life is too much like a pathless wood Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs Broken across it, and one eye is weeping From a twig’s having lashed across it open. I'd like to get away from earth awhile And then come back to it and begin over. May no fate willfully misunderstand me And half grant what I wish and snatch me away Not to return. Earth’s the right place for love: I don’t know where it's likely to go better. I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree, And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more, But dipped its top and set me down again. That would be good both going and coming back. One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.

[woodlandtrust]

https://lnkd.in/efnMPSks CHAMPION STATUS FOR BUMBLEBEE CONSERVATION SITE One of UK’s rarest bumblebees settles in Kent after restoration of former farmland. Former farmland that has been transformed into a mosaic of habitats has been awarded “champion status” for a rare bee that has set up home there. The shrill carder bee, so named because of its high-pitched buzz, is one of the UK’s rarest bumblebees with just five populations remaining across England and Wales. But it has been given a boost by conservation work by the Woodland Trust at its Victory Wood site near Yorkletts, Whitstable, in Kent, which it bought in 2004. Emily Beament, Shane Jarvis 12 December 2022

[woodlandtrust]

Winter Trees, by William Carlos Williams

All the complicated details of the attiring and the disattiring are completed! A liquid moon moves gently among the long branches. Thus having prepared their buds against a sure winter the wise trees stand sleeping in the cold.

[woodlandtrust]

Woods in Winter, by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

When winter winds are piercing chill, And through the hawthorn blows the gale, With solemn feet I tread the hill, That overbrows the lonely vale. O'er the bare upland, and away Through the long reach of desert woods, The embracing sunbeams chastely play, And gladden these deep solitudes. Where, twisted round the barren oak, The summer vine in beauty clung, And summer winds the stillness broke, The crystal icicle is hung. Where, from their frozen urns, mute springs Pour out the river's gradual tide, Shrilly the skater's iron rings, And voices fill the woodland side. Alas! how changed from the fair scene, When birds sang out their mellow lay, And winds were soft, and woods were green, And the song ceased not with the day! But still wild music is abroad, Pale, desert woods! within your crowd; And gathering winds, in hoarse accord, Amid the vocal reeds pipe loud. Chill airs and wintry winds! my ear Has grown familiar with your song; I hear it in the opening year, I listen, and it cheers me long.

[woodlandtrust]

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening, by Robert Frost

Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village though; He will not see me stopping here To watch his woods fill up with snow. My little horse must think it queer To stop without a farmhouse near Between the woods and frozen lake The darkest evening of the year. He gives his harness bells a shake To ask if there is some mistake. The only other sound’s the sweep Of easy wind and downy flake. The woods are lovely, dark and deep, But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep.