Lowell.    

	Shaggy shade
	Of desert-loving pine, whose emerald scalp
	Nods to the storm.

Byron.    

	’Twas on the inner bark, stripped from the pine,
	Our father pencilled this epistle rare;
	Two blazing pine knots did his torches shine,
	Two braided pallets formed his desk and chair.

Durfee.    

	Like two cathedral towers these stately pines
	Uplift their fretted summits tipped with cones;
	The arch beneath them is not built with stores,
	Not Art but Nature traced these lovely lines,
	And carved this graceful arabesque of vines;
	No organ but the wind here sighs and moans,
	No sepulchre conceals a martyr’s bones,
	No marble bishop on his tomb reclines.
	Enter! the pavement, carpeted with leaves,
	Gives back a softened echo to thy tread!
	Listen! the choir is singing; all the birds,
	In leafy galleries beneath the eaves,
	Are singing! listen, ere the sound be fled,
	And learn there may be worship without words.

Longfellow.