Under the greenwood tree
Who loves to lie with me,
And turn his merry note
Unto the sweet bird's throat,
Come hither, come hither, come hither:
Here shall he see, no enemy
But winter and rough weather.
Who doth ambition shun
And loves to live i' the sun,
Seeking the food he eats,
And pleased with what he gets,
Come hither, come hither, come hither:
Here shall he see, no enemy
But winter and rough weather.
William Shakespeare
What kind of times are these, when
To talk about trees is almost a crime
Because it implies silence about so many misdeeds?
Bertolt Brecht