A beauteous Tree in a narrow place, Like an olive girt with a golden hue, Upon a sunny bank, obscure and still, Reclined, and brown, and musky too, The eye might never muse upon, Nor winged singers know the tune, That sanctifies adventure’s toil. Abe in shadows, and beauty shone, More brightly through each secret aisle.
– Robert Southey, “The Tree”
- Robert Southey