The oak roars when a high wind wrestles with it; the beech shrieks; the elm sends forth a long, deep groan; the ash pours out moans of thrilling anguish.
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.
A large, branching, aged oak is perhaps the most venerable of all inanimate objects.
Eros harrows my heart: wild gales sweeping desolate mountains, uprooting oaks.
I have no other masters than the beeches and the oaks.
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