A second blow of many flowers appears, flowers faintly tinged and breathing no perfume; but fruits, not blossoms, form the woodland wreath that circles Autumn's brow.
Things have changed. The suburbs are developed, but other parts, like where we recorded Spirit and Danse Manatee are still woodland and farmland.
It is an ill thing to meet a man you thought dead in the woodland at dusk.
Loveliest of trees, the cherry now Is hung with bloom along the bough, And stands about the woodland ride Wearing white for Eastertide. Now, of my threescore years and ten, Twenty will not come again, And take from seventy springs a score, It only leaves me fifty more. And since to look at things in bloom Fifty springs are little room, About the woodlands I will go To see the cherry hung with snow.
Something about her suggested that her leisure activities included wrestling large woodland animals and banging bricks together.
And oft I heard the tender dove In firry woodlands making moan.
That's a gesture of endearment in some cultures. Some hug, some kiss, some set each other on fire in small patches of woodland
The most unhappy thing about conservation is that it is never permanent. Save a priceless woodland or an irreplaceable mountain today, and tomorrow it is threatened from another quarter.
My favourite plant is the foxglove. I think they are a perfect balance between being a garden plant and a wild plant, as at home in woodland as they are in a city.
When bow-hunting, you find you get closer to the woodland critters. The flora and the forest floor becomes clearer. You look at things more closely. You're moreaware. You know the limited range of the bow is only 40 yards or so. You must try to outwait that approaching deer. Careful not to make the slightest movement or sound hoping that your scent won't suddenly waft his way. That's when you'll know for sure and appreciate deeply what bow-hunting is all about.
[V]ariety of climate should always go with stability of abode. . . . an Englishman’s house is not only his castle; it is his fairy castle. Clouds and colours of every varied dawn and eve are perpetually touching and turning it from clay to gold, or from gold to ivory. There is a line of woodland beyond a corner of my garden which is literally different on every one of the three hundred and sixty-five days. Sometimes it seems as near as a hedge, and sometimes as far as a faint and fiery evening cloud.
I love the sound of the wind in the trees and the song of the birds and the shuffle in the leaves of my many woodland friends.
Here hills and vales, the woodland and the plain Here earth and water seem to strive again, Not chaos-like together crushed and bruised, But, as the world, harmoniously confused: Where order in variety we see, And where, though all things differ, all agree.
Kate, perhaps you need to explain to your significant other that he is in no position to give me orders. Last time I checked, his title was Beast Lord, which is a gentle euphemism for a man who strips nude at night and runs around through the woods hunting small woodland creatures. I'm a premier Master of the Dead. I will go where I please.
