“Standing at the edge of the dark forest, he kissed me. The forest shook, trembled. Where snow touched the trees, white flecks rose into the air and danced on the hands of the wind. Branches waved. Trees swayed, bending to almost break. Or maybe it was me, us. Maybe it was us moving while the rest of the world stood still.”

“And the smoke rose slowly, slowly, Through the tranquil air of morning, First a single line of darkness, Then a denser, bluer vapor, Then a snow-white cloud unfolding, Like the tree-tops of the forest, Ever rising, rising, rising, Till it touched the top of heaven, Till it broke against the heaven, And rolled outward all around it.”

“At first it had no name. It was the thing itself, the vivid thing. It was his friend. On windy days it danced, demented, waving wild arms, or in the silence of evening drowsed and dreamed, swaying in the blue, goldeny air. Even at night it did not go away. Wrapped in his truckle bed, he could hear it stirring darkly outside in the dark, all the long night long. There were others, nearer to him, more vivid still than this, that came and went, talking, but they were wholly familiar, almost a part of himself, while it, steadfast and aloof, belonged to the mysterious outside, to the wind and the weather and the goldeny blue air. It was a part of the world, and yet it was his friend. Look, Nicolas, look! See the big tree!Tree. That was its name. And also: the linden. They were nice words. He had known them a long time before he knew what they meant. They did not mean themselves, they were nothing in themselves, they meant the dancing singing thing outside. In wind, in silence, at night, in the changing air, it changed and yet it was changelessly the tree, the linden tree. That was strange.The wind blew on the day that he left, and everything waved and waved. The linden tree waved. Goodbye!”

“Dance me slowly along a moonlit path,Soaked with light from moon and stars above,Hold my hand and whistle a tune,Dance me slowly to the edge of Love.Waltz here with me on forest grass,Soft ballet pirouettes round sun dappled trees,Hold my hand and hum a tune,Catch my freshly blown kiss off the breeze.”

“He said to me I was a tree in a story about a forest, and that it was arrogant of me to believe any differently. And he told me the story of the forest is better than the story of the tree.”

“I am a forest, and a night of dark trees: but he who is not afraid of my darkness, will find banks full of roses under my cypresses.”