Binsey Poplars

My aspens dear, whose airy cages quelled,Quelled or quenched in leaves the leaping sun,All felled, felled, are all felled;Of a fresh and following folded rankNot spared, not oneThat dandled a sandalledShadow that swam or sankOn meadow and river and wind-wandering weed-winding bank.

O if we but knew what we doWhen we delve or hew—Hack and rack the growing green!Since country is so tenderTo touch, her being só slender,That, like this sleek and seeing ballBut a prick will make no eye at all,Where we, even where we meanTo mend her we end her,When we hew or delve:After-comers cannot guess the beauty been.Ten or twelve, only ten or twelveStrokes of havoc unselveThe sweet especial scene,Rural scene, a rural scene,Sweet especial rural scene.