From the old wood came an ancient melancholy, somehow soothing to her, better than the harsh insentience of the outer world. She liked the unwariness of the remnant of forest, the speaking reticence of the old trees. They seemed a very power of silence, and yet a vital presence. They, too, were waiting: obstinately, stoically waiting, and giving off a potency of silence.

Lady Chatterley's Lover