As with Mew, I share with Hopkins a visceral reaction to the cutting down of trees I've known.
Binsley Poplars
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 dandled a sandalled
Shadow 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
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
havok unselve
The
sweet especial scene
Rural
scene, a rural scene,
Sweet
especial rural scene.
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