If the Olive Trees knew the hands that planted them, Their Oil would become Tears.

In the summer when the wind stirs the trees, there is that rushing, swelling sound of masses of heavy foliage, a sound that drowns, in its full-blossomed, undulating, ocean-like murmur, the individual sorrows of trees. But across this leafless unfrequented field these two evergreens could lift to each other their sub-human voices and cry their ancient vegetation-cry, clear and strong; that cry which always seems to come from some underworld of Being, where tragedy is mitigated by a strange undying acceptance beyond the comprehension of the troubled hearts of men and women.

Alas, tears are the poet's heritage!

The thorns which I have reap'd are of the tree
I planted; they have torn me, and I bleed.
I should have known what fruit would spring from such a seed.

Tears, that could be the tone, if they weren't so easy, the true tone and tenor at last.

...(hot, opalescent, thick tears that poets and lovers shed)...

Even the doves were in mourning. The trees seemed to sigh at her leave-taking, and the windows of each building looked, to her, like sorrowful eyes. (first lines)

... Oh! burning are the drops
That wounded love will shed—like to the dew
Falling from off the poison tree, the blight
Still following the touch ;—ah ! other tears
Soften and bless—but these destroy the heart.

For human tears are lava-drops,
That scorch and wither as they flow;
Then let them flow for those who live,
And not for those who sleep below.

En la tarde lluviosa
mi corazon aprende
la tragedia otonal
que los arboles lleuven.

The vine that has grown old on an old tree falls with the ruin of that tree, and through that bad companionship must perish with it.

In art there are tears that do often lie too deep for thoughts.

To these crocodile tears they will add sobs, fiery sighs, and sorrowful countenance.

When nature gave us tears, She gave us leave to weep.