Humanity is less, far less than the individual, because the individual may sometimes be capable of truth, and humanity is a tree of lies.
The Brangwens had lived for generations on the Marsh Farm, in the meadows where the Erewash twisted sluggishly through alder trees, separating Derbyshire from Nottinghamshire.
The trees down the boulevard stand naked in thought, Their abundant summery wordage silenced, caught In the grim undertow; naked the trees confront Implacable winter's long, cross-questioning brunt.
Imitate the magnificent trees that speak no word of their rapture, but only breathe largely the luminous breeze.
I never knew how soothing trees are-many trees and patches of open sunlight, and tree presences; it is almost like having another being.
Creation destroys as it goes, throws down one tree for the rise of another. But ideal mankind would abolish death, multiply itself million upon million, rear up city upon city, save every parasite alive, until the accumulation of mere existence is swollen to a horror.
I never knew how soothing trees are - many trees and patches of open sunlight, and tree-presences - it is almost like having another being