The wood I walk in on this mild May day, with the young yellow-brown foliage of the oaks between me and the blue sky, the white star-flowers and the blue-eyed speedwell and the ground ivy at my feet, what grove of tropic palms, what strange ferns or splendid broad-petalled blossoms, could ever thrill such deep and delicate fibres within me as this home scene?
There are no more uses of "foliage" in the book.
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It’s difficult to spot the birds in the foliage.
I like to rest my eyes by periodically looking up from the computer and gazing out the window at the foliage.