[The poem below is one I wrote about 60 years ago. I still feel the same way today. So, here’s an example of something that hasn’t changed about me psychologically despite all that’s happened in my world and in the world..]
I think the forest is a holy place:
A shrine of peace for bird and beast and man;
For when I stop to rest from life’s quick place,
I journey through the wood and there I scan
With eyes and mind a palace, emerald-walled.
I see the columns, black or gray or white;
And I am thrilled and my whole being enthralled
With this great tonic of the forest light
Which casts the tender green of maple leaves
About the dark, dank, mossy forest floor;
And then the stillness of the woodland cleaves,
When some beast’s call or cry is heard once more.
But I have often seen a sight of shame:
A forest where the trees are all the same;
Where every trunk’s conforming hue is gray
And every limb and twig is set in form.
I walk for miles and see no creature gay,
For everything must coincide, conform.
I see a fiery disc set sky aflame;
The sunset throws black shadows, thin and tall;
Yet even this to beauty has no claim —
Each tree is three feet wide and forty tall.
Some people say that would be heavenly:
To live where each bright day the setting sun
Shall beam and gleam and glimmer flawlessly.
But I would rather see some variation:
A world where trees are not at all the same —
Where every oak its unique beauty does acclaim.