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 rank Not spared, not one That dandled a sandalled Shadow that swam or sank On meadow & river & wind-wandering weed-winding bank. 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 touch, her being só slender, 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 unselve The sweet especial scene, Rural scene, a rural scene, Sweet especial rural scene.

My poplars! You with airy grids thick-grown To chloroform with chlorophyll Sir Sun, Him bounding, you now all cut down, cut down; Yours was a vigorous and tight-knit rank, To nought now, no, you shrank, That swung a so low-slung Shadow that swam or sank On turf and brook and wind-wild woodbin’d bank. O did you and I but know how to stop Who dig and chop – Hack and rack all things that natural grow! So soft is country’s naturism To touch, inasmuch as lissom – Just so, this smooth and sighting ball: But a prick, and it’s not optical – Where we, even where we pretend We’d mend her, we end her, When we delve, when we hew: Today, tomorrow, coming folk won’t know How much glory has had to go. Just six and six, or six and two and two Struck blows of havoc could undo That singular most mystic Vista rustic, vista rustic, That vista rustic, oh, most mystic.