My aspens dear, whose airy cages quelled, <br /> Quelled or quenched in leaves the leaping sun, <br /> {'A}ll f{'e}lled, f{'e}lled, are {'a}ll f{'e}lled; <br /> Of a fresh |&| following folded rank <br /> Not spared, not one <br /> That dandled a sandalled <br /> Shadow that swam or sank <br /> On meadow |&| river |&| wind-wandering weed-winding bank. <br /> O if we but knew what we do <br /> When we delve or hew -- <br /> Hack |&| rack the growing green! <br /> Since country is so tender <br /> To t{'o}uch, her b{'e}ing s{'o} sl{'e}nder, <br /> That, like this sleek |&| seeing ball <br /> But a prick will make no eye at all, <br /> Where we, even where we mean <br /> To mend her we end her, <br /> When we hew or delve: <br /> After-comers cannot guess the beauty been. <br /> Ten or twelve, only ten or twelve <br /> Strokes of havoc unselve <br /> The sweet especial scene, <br /> Rural scene, a rural scene, <br /> Sweet especial rural scene.<br /><br />Gerard Manley Hopkins<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/binsey-poplars-felled-79/
