Out of the bosom of the Air, Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken, Over the woodlands brown and bare, Over the harvest-fields forsaken, Silent, and soft, and slow Descends the snow.
In this world of lies, Truth is forced to fly like a scared white doe in the woodlands; and only by cunning glimpses will she reveal herself, as in Shakespeare and other masters of the great Art of Telling the Truth, even though it be covertly, and by snatches.Herman Melville
And oft I heard the tender dove In firry woodlands making moan.
The snowdrop and primrose our woodlands adorn, And violets bathe in the wet o' the morn.Robert Burns
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