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