The fig-tree at this day to Indians known

In Malabar or Deccan, spreads her arms,

Branching so broad and long, that on the ground

The bended twigs take root, and daughters grow

About the mother tree, a pillar’d shade,

High over-arched and echoing walks between.

–John Milton, Paradise Lost

The Banyan Tree

O you shaggy-headed banyan tree standing on the bank of the pond,
have you forgotten the little child,
like the birds that have nested in your branches and left you?

Do you not remember how he sat at the window
and wondered at the tangle of your roots that plunged underground?

The women would come to fill their jars in the pond,
and your huge black shadow would wriggle
on the water like sleep struggling to wake up.

Sunlight danced on the ripple like
restless tiny shuttles weaving golden tapestry.

Two ducks swam by the woody margin above their shadows,
and the child would sit still and think.

He longed to be the wind and blow through your rustling branches,
to be your shadow and legthen with the day on the water,
to be a bird and perch on your topmost twig,
and to float like those ducks among the weeds and shadows.

— Rabindranath Tagore

All images via Columbia University