The willow hangs with sheltering grace
	And benediction o’er their sod,
	And Nature, hushed, assures the soul
	They rest in God.

Crammond Kennedy.    

	Willow, in thy breezy moan,
	I can hear a deeper tone;
	Through thy leaves come whispering low,
	Faint sweet sounds of loud ago—
	Willow, sighing willow!

Mrs. Hemans.    

	Know ye the willow-tree,
	Whose grey leaves quiver,
	Whispering gloomily
	To yon pale river?
	Lady, at even-tide
	Wander not near it:
	They say its branches hide
	A sad, lost spirit!

Thackeray.    

	Tree of the gloom, o’erhanging the tomb,
	Thou seem’st to love the churchyard sod;
	Thou ever art found on the charnel ground,
	Where the laughing and happy have rarely trod.
	When thy branches trail to the wintry gale,
	Thy wailing is sad to the hearts of men;
	When the world is bright in a summer’s light,
	’Tis only the wretched that love thee then.
	The golden moth and the shining bee
	Will seldom rest on the Willow-tree.

Eliza Cook.