Gosh, this text from the Papillon website for Dryad....what to say??? 
"Settled in silence. I utter no words, but my lashes flash fluent in the language of birds. My fingertips feather the sparkled patois of flora my skin, steeped in sunlight, flows smoothly with fauna. The hushes of rushes steal sounds from the wind. Is it often lamented, the weight of my tongue? Or the vetiver ash that rests in my lungs?
Wordless in woodlands, my senses can sing. sound is not needed to speak from within. I press soft flesh to bark in the evening’s gold dusk, to breathe heavy hues of a Satyr’s musk. My body is swelling with the oak’s root and seed Our veins and our vines weave together with ease, And as your chatter dispels at the shake of our leaves, You set your ear to our chest, to hear the whisper of trees. We rise not in your throat, nor your mouth, nor your teeth.
But we streak coloured streams set to dazzle. When your eyes close in the chaos of our heady wood drowns, and heavy with ache in the spectrum of colours you’ve found, I hold you close. Ignore tingles and deafen sounds. Beneath the dark of your eyelids, our damp forest floor rises. The lilac of lavender soothes dwindling sight. The essence of our body’s sap stained perfume Soars above oak beams, drenched in silk, silver light. I press the soft suede of an apricots sheath to your lips.
The sweetness jars with narcissus’ bitter. Head tilted, enchanted, you breathe your first breath, with the timber of touch I lead you, bereft of sight and of sound, but with gilt dew on your skin each of your pursed pores unravels, and the forest seeps in. I watch moist emerald moss survive in the sun, I catch burnished, bronze leaves that fall from each stem. While dwelled in the canopy, I skim saplings in starlight, And dust gilded galbanum through the dim of the glen. From autumn to summer, from winter to spring I glow.
The branches and bow are open. The changing of seasons ticks with the sun. Each colour prints petal marks to rest at your chest; it is dappled with wolf’s blood and the slick of deer’s tongue. Roses creep at my ankles, bergamot blooms Clary sage clouds you with billowing fumes, and here in my tree I watch you awaken; I do not hide behind trunk or stem. So dance with the Dryad’s, sip all you have taken Fall blind, deaf and drunk in the pearl of the glen. Whisper so soft, your breath on my neck without words, Inhale at the bow of my tree. What are words in a wilderness? save your lament I spin voices and chants with the power of scent. My touch lifts you to heights of nature’s true worth, and I speak every word, with the fragrance of earth. © Jasmine Moores and Papillon Perfumery"