“A pine cut down, a dead pine is no more a pine than a dead human carcass is a man. Is it the lumberman then who is the friend and lover of the pine-stands nearest to it and understands its nature best? No! no! it is the poet; he it is who makes the truest use of the pine.”
“It is the living spirit of the tree, not its spirit of turpentine, with which I sympathize, and which heals my cuts. It is as immortal as I am, and perchance will go to as high a heaven, there to tower above me still.”
—Henry David Thoreau, “1857 Allegash and East Branch”, The Maine Woods