Binsey Poplars
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O if we but knew what we do When we delve or hew— Hack and rack the growing green! [ Since country is so tender To tóuch, her béing só slénder, That, like this sleek and seeing ball But a prick will make no eye at all, Where we, even where we mean To mend her we end her, When we hew or delve:] After-comers cannot guess the beauty been. Ten or twelve, only ten or twelve Strokes of havoc únselve The sweet especial scene, Rural scene, a rural scene, Sweet especial rural scene.
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My aspens dear, whose airy cages quelled, Quelled or quenched in leaves the leaping sun, Áll félled, félled, are áll félled; Of a fresh and following folded rank Not spared, not one That dandled a sandalled Shadow that swam or sank On meadow and river and wind-wandering weed-winding bank.
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felled 1879