The monarch oak, the patriarch of the trees, Shoots rising up, and spreads by slow degrees. Three centuries he grows, and three he stays Supreme in state; and in three more decays.

Old noted oak! I saw thee in a mood Of vague indifference; and yet with me Thy memory, like thy fate, hath lingering stood For years, thou hermit, in the lonely sea Of grass that waves around thee!

Those green-robed senators of mighty woods, Tall oaks, branch-charmed by the earnest stars, Dream, and so dream all night without a stir.

Because so much of York Region is protected by the Oak Ridges Moraine and the greenbelt, there is a very limited amount of strategically located land.

The great thing about oak is that it looks old. It is beautifully solid and well made. There is something about the style you can't help being attracted to.

The oak, when living, monarch of the wood; The English oak, which, dead, commands the flood.