| |
|
(Felled 1879)
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 swam or sank
On meadow and river and 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 so
slender,
That, like this sleek and seeing ball
But
a prick will made 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.
|
|
|
