He who gives faith hears the "goings of God in the tree-tops." The charcoal-burner fronts an oak for finding out how many cords of wood are in it, as the Goths of old fronted peerless temples for estimating how many huts they could quarry from the stately pile.[1] But an artist curses the woodsman for making the tree food for ax and saw.

It has become to him as sacred as the cathedral within which he bares his head.

It is a temple where birds praise God.

It is a harp with endless music for the summer winds.

It fills his eye with beauty and his ear with rustling melodies.
For the poet that selfsame oak is enshrined in a thousand noble associations.