The breaking waves dashed high

On a stern and rock-bound coast,

And the woods against a stormy sky

Their giant branches tossed.

John Keble (1792-1866): Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers.

To-morrow to fresh woods and pastures new.

John Milton (1608-1674): Lycidas. Line 193.

Oh, Brignall banks are wild and fair,

And Greta woods are green,

And you may gather garlands there

Would grace a summer's queen.

Sir Walter Scott (1771-1832): Rokeby. Canto iii. Stanza 16.

Fieldes have eies and woods have eares.

John Heywood (Circa 1565): Proverbes. Part ii. Chap. v.

Come live with me, and be my love;

And we will all the pleasures prove

That hills and valleys, dales and fields,

Woods or steepy mountain yields.

Christopher Marlowe (1565-1593): The Passionate Shepherd to his Love.

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods;

There is a rapture on the lonely shore;

There is society, where none intrudes,

By the deep sea, and music in its roar:

I love not man the less, but Nature more.

Lord Byron 1788-1824: Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto iv. Stanza 178.

Those green-robed senators of mighty woods,

Tall oaks, branch-charmed by the earnest stars,

Dream, and so dream all night without a stir.

John Keats (1795-1821): Hyperion. Book i.

A stoic of the woods,—a man without a tear.

Thomas Campbell (1777-1844): Gertrude of Wyoming. Part i. Stanza 23.

A noise like of a hidden brook

In the leafy month of June,

That to the sleeping woods all night

Singeth a quiet tune.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772-1834): The Ancient Mariner. Part v.

The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year,

Of wailing winds and naked woods and meadows brown and sear.

William Cullen Bryant (1794-1878): The Death of the Flowers.

I am as free as Nature first made man,

Ere the base laws of servitude began,

When wild in woods the noble savage ran.

John Dryden (1631-1701): The Conquest of Granada. Part i. Act i. Sc. 1.

She what was honour knew,

And with obsequious majesty approv'd

My pleaded reason. To the nuptial bower

I led her blushing like the morn; all heaven

And happy constellations on that hour

Shed their selectest influence; the earth

Gave sign of gratulation, and each hill;

Joyous the birds; fresh gales and gentle airs

Whisper'd it to the woods, and from their wings

Flung rose, flung odours from the spicy shrub.

John Milton (1608-1674): Paradise Lost. Book viii. Line 508.