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My heart is like a singing bird whose nest is in a water'd shoot; my heart is like an apple-tree whose boughs are bent with thick-set fruit; my heart is like a rainbow shell that paddles in a halcyon sea; my heart is gladder than all these, because my love is come to me. raise me a daïs of silk and down; hang it with vair and purple dyes; carve it in doves and pomegranates, and peacocks with a hundred eyes; work it in gold and silver grapes, in leaves and silver fleurs-de-lys; because the birthday of my life is come, my love is come to me.
-Christina Rossetti
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My Heart Is Like A Singing Bird

Christina Rossetti
My heart is like a singing bird whose nest is in a water'd shoot; my heart is like an apple-tree whose boughs are bent with thick-set fruit; my heart is like a rainbow shell that paddles in a halcyon sea; my heart is gladder than all these, because my love is come to me. raise me a daïs of silk and down; hang it with vair and purple dyes; carve it in doves and pomegranates, and peacocks with a hundred eyes; work it in gold and silver grapes, in leaves and silver fleurs-de-lys; because the birthday of my life is come, my love is come to me.
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My heart is like a singing bird whose nest is in a water'd shoot; my heart is like an apple-tree whose boughs are bent with thick-set fruit.
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My favorite fruit is grapes. because with grapes, you always get another chance. 'cause, you know, if you have a crappy apple or a peach, you're stuck with that crappy piece of fruit. but if you have a crappy grape, no problem - just move on to the next. 'grapes: the fruit of hope.'
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Leaves are usually looked upon as the children of the tree. yes, they are children of the tree, born from the tree, but they are also mothers of the tree. the leaves combine raw sap, water, and minerals, with sunshine and gas, and convert it into a variegated sap that can nourish the tree. in this way, the leaves become the mother of the tree. we are all children of society, but we are also mothers. we have to nourish society. if we are uprooted from society, we can not trasform it into a more liveable place for us and our children.
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Sometimes i come across a tree which seems like buddha or jesus: loving, compassionate, still, unambitious, enlightened, in eternal meditation, giving pleasure to a pilgrim, shade to a cow, berries to a bird, beauty to its surroundings, health to its neighbors, branches for the fire, leaves for the soil, asking nothing in return, in total harmony with the wind and the rain. how much can i learn from a tree? the tree is my church, the tree is my temple, the tree is my mantra, the tree is my poem and my prayer.
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I think that i shall never see a poem lovely as a tree. a tree whose hungry mouth is pressed against the earth's sweet flowing breast; a tree that looks at god all day and lifts her leafy arms to pray; a tree that may in summer wear a nest of robins in her hair; upon whose bosom snow has lain; who intimately lives with rain. poems are made by fools like me, but only god can make a tree.
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There is a beautiful spirit breathing now its mellowed richness on the clustered trees, and, from a beaker full of richest dyes, pouring new glory on the autumn woods, and dipping in warm light the pillared clouds. morn on the mountain, like a summer bird, lifts up her purple wing, and in the vales the gentle wind, a sweet and passionate wooer, kisses the blushing leaf, and stirs up life within the solemn woods of ash deep-crimsoned, and silver beech, and maple yellow-leaved, where autumn, like a faint old man, sits down by the wayside a-weary.
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