I take a sun bath and listen to the hours, formulating, and disintegrating under the pines, and smell the resiny hardihood of the high noon hours. The world is lost in a blue haze of distances, and the immediate sleeps in a thin and finite sun.
The heavy trees, The grunting, shuffling branches, the robust, The nocturnal, the antique, the blue-green pines Deepen the feelings to inhuman depths.
Thou hastenest down between the hills to meet me at the road, The secret scarcely lisping of thy beautiful abode Among the pines and mosses of yonder shadowy height, Where thou dost sparkle into song, and fill the woods with light.
The young pines springing up in the corn-fields from year to year are to me a refreshing fact.
Creede is built of new pine boards and lies between two immense mountains covered with pines and snow.
Modesty never rages, never murmurs, never pouts; when it is ill-treated, it pines, it beseeches, it languishes.
In winter, when the dismal rain Comes down in slanting lines, And Wind, that grand old harper, smote His thunder-harp of pines.
In our bones we need the natural curves of hills, the scent of chaparral, the whisper of pines, the possibility of wildness.
My book should smell of pines and resound with the hum of insects.
How right it is to love flowers and the greenery of pines and ivy and hawthorn hedges; they have been with us from the very beginning.
far away from my country I would be like those trees they chop down at Christmastime, those poor rootless pines that last a little while and then die.
