A small grove massacred to the last ash, An oak with heart-rot, give away the show: This great society is going to smash; They cannot fool us with how fast they go, How much they cost each other and the gods. A culture is no better than its woods.
I could lecture on dry oak leaves; I could, but who would hear me? If I were to try it on any large audience, I fear it would be no gain to them, and a positive loss to me. I should have behaved rudely toward my rustling friends.
A large oak tree is just a little nut that refused to give up.
It takes time for an acorn to turn into an oak, but the oak is already implied in the acorn.
If you go to a tree with an ax and take five whacks at the tree every day, it doesn't matter if it's an oak or a redwood; eventually the tree has to fall down.
Outward attacks and troubles rather fix than unsettle the Christian, as tempests from without only serve to root the oak faster; while an inward canker will gradually rot and decay it.
I hope that people will come and experience our play 'A Small Oak Tree Runs Red'. I don't want anybody to suffer, but I source the 18th Century philosopher David Hume in association with the experience. He asserted that when we go to a tragic play, and when the form of tragedy is well put together, then we can experience a catharsis that is soul cleansing, and an anodyne to what our life would be like without it.
You woke up on the wrong side of the oak tree, didn’t you? (Acheron)
Some men are like oak leaves -- they don't know when they're dead, but still hang right on; and there are others who let go before anything has really touched them.
This oak tree and me, we're made of the same stuff.
At my home in the southwest of France, I grow oak, hazel, and lemon trees in my backyard.
You cannot spend your life wanting to be someone else, snipping off pieces of yourself you don't like, and suddenly expect, upon reaching a goal, to be confident, self-accepting, rooted like an oak tree in your being.
Today's mighty oak is just yesterday's nut, that held its ground.
You can take for granted that people know more or less what a street, a shop, a beach, a sky, an oak tree look like. Tell them what makes this one different.
Oh, why does compassion weaken us?' It doesn't, really. . . Somewhere where it all balances out-don't the philosophers have a name for it, the perfect place, the place where the answers live?-if we could go there, you could see it doesn't. It only looks, a little bit, like it does, from here, like an ant at the foot of an oak tree. He doesn't have a clue that it's a tree; it's the beginning of the wall round the world, to him.
The boughs of the oak are roaring inside the acorn.
Soul of fibre and heart of oak.
The willow which bends to the tempest often escapes better than the oak which resists it.
What will the solemn Hemlock- What will the Oak tree say?
I wish you were that birch rising from the clump behind you, and I the gray oak alongside.