There builded boles of beeches ancient
marched in majesty in myriad leaves
of golden russet greyly rooted,
in leaves translucent lightly robéd;
their boughs up-bending blown at morning
by the wings of winds that wandered down
o'er blossomy bent breathing odours
to the wavering water's winking margin.
J.R.R. Tolkein
The Lay of The Children of Húrin
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