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Trees And Plants-Palm: Quotations from Cyclopedia of Practical Quotations

Olive. Olea Europxa. See there the olive grove of Academe, Plato's retirement, where the Attic bird Trills her thick-warbled notes the summer long.— MILTON — Paradise Regained. Bk. IV. L. 244.

Orange. Citrus Aurantium. Yes, sing the song of the orange-tree, With its leaves of velvet green : With its luscious fruit of sunset hue, The fairest that ever were seen; The grape may have its bacchanal verse, To praise the fig we are free; But homage I pay to the queen of all, The glorious orange-tree.— J. K. HOYT — The Orange-Tree.

The orange with the lime-tree vies In shedding rich perfume.— MARIA JAMES — Ode for the Fourth of

July. Beneath some orange-trees, Whose fruit and blossoms in the breeze Were wantoning together free, Like age at play with infancy.— MOORE — Lalla Rookh. Paradise and

the Peri. If I were yonder orange-tree And thou the blossom blooming there, I would not yield a breath of thee To scent the most imploring air!— MOORE — If I Were Yonder Wave, My

Dear. 'Twas noon; and every orange bud Hung languid o'er the crystal flood, Faint as the lids of maiden eyes Beneath a lover's burning sighs!— MOORE — I Stole Along the Flowery

Bank. Palm. Phenix Dactylifera. As the palm-tree standeth so straight and so tall, The more the hail beats, and the more the rains fall.— LONGFELLOW — Annie of Tharaw. Trans. from the German of Simon Dach. L. 11.

First the high palme-trees, with braunches faire, Out of the lowly vallies did arise, And high shoote up their heads into the skyes.— SPENSER — Virgils Gnat. L. 191,

Next to thee, O fair gazelle, O Beddowee girl, beloved so well; Next to the fearless Nedjidee, Whose fleetness shall bear me again to thee; Next to ye both I love the Palm, With his leaves of beauty, his fruit of balm; Next to ye both I love the Tree Whose fluttering shadow wraps us three With love, and silence, and mystery!— BAYARD TAYLOR — The Arab to the Palm.

Of threads of palm was the carpet spun Whereon he kneels when the day is done, And the foreheads of Islam are bowed as one! To him the palm is a gift divine, Wherein all uses of man combine,- House and raiment and food and wine! And, in the hour of his great release, His need of the palm shall only cease With the shroud wherein he lieth in peace. "Allah il Allah!" he sings his psalm, On the Indian Sea, by the isles of balm; "Thanks to Allah, who gives the palm!"— WHITTIER — The Palm-Tree.

Pear. Pyrus Communis. I ask in vain Who planted on the slope this lofty group Of ancient pear-trees that with spring-time burst Into such breadth of bloom. C.— BRYANT — Among the Trees.

The great white pear-tree dropped with dew from leaves And blossom, under heavens of happy blue. JEAN INGELOw-Songs with Preludes. Wedlock. A pear-tree planted nigh: 'Twas charg'd with fruit that made a goodly show, And hung with dangling pears was every bough.— POPE — January and May. L. 602.

Pine. Pinus. Shaggy shade Of desert-loving pine, whose emerald scalp Nods to the storm.— BYRON — The Prophecy of Dante. Canto II. L. 63.

Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines.— COLERIDGE — Hymn Before Sunrise in

the Vale of Chamouni. 'Twas on the inner bark, stripped from the pine, Our father pencilled this epistle rare; Two blazing pine knots did his torches shine, Two braided pallets formed his desk and chair.— DURFEE — What-Cheer. Canto II.

TREES AND PLANTS-PINE. 617 As sunbeams stream through liberal space And nothing jostle or displace, So waved the pine-tree through my thought And fanned the dreams it never brought.— EMERSON — Woodnotes. II.

'Tis night upon the lake. Our bed of boughs Is built where-high above-the pine-tree soughs. 'Tis still, and yet what woody noises loom Against the background of the silent gloom! One well might hear the opening of a flower If day were hushed as this.— R. W. GILDER — The Voice of the Pine.

The pines grow gray A little, in the biting wind.— HELEN HUNT JACKSON — March.

Like two cathedral towers these stately pines Uplift their fretted summits tipped with cones; The arch beneath them is not built with stones, Not Art but Nature traced these lovely lines, And carved this graceful arabesque of vines; No organ but the wind here sighs and moans, No sepulchre conceals a martyr's bones, No marble bishop on his tomb reclines. Enter! the pavement, carpeted with leaves, Gives back a softened echo to thy tread! Listen! the choir is singing; all the birds, In leafy galleries beneath the eaves, Are singing! listen, ere the sound be fled, And learn there may be worship without words.— LONGFELLOW — Sonnets. My Cathedral.

The pine is the mother of legends.— LOWELL — The Growth of a Legend.

Under the yaller pines I house, When sunshine makes 'em all sweet-scented, An' hear among their furry boughs The baskin' west-wind purr contented.— LOWELL — The Biglow Papers. Second Series. No. 10.

To arched walks of twilight groves, And shadows brown that Sylvan loves, Of pine.— MILTON — Il Penseroso. L. 133.

Here also grew the rougher rinded pine, The great Argoan ship's brave ornament.— SPENSER — Virgils Gnat. L. 209.

Ancient Pines, Ye bear no record of the years of man. Spring is your sole historian.— BAYARD TAYLOR — The Pine Forest of

Monterey. Stately Pines, But few more years around the promontory Your chant will meet the thunders of the sea.— BAYARD TAYLOR — The Pine Forest of