Rising and cawing at the gun's report
Sever themselves and madly sweep the sky,
So at his sight away his fellows fly.
(Midsummer Night's Dream.)
And plant life is touched with special tenderness:
All the bystanders had wet their cheeks
Like trees bedashed with rain.
(Richard III.)
Why grow the branches when the root is gone?
Why wither not the leaves that want their sap?