My aspens dear, whose airy cages quelled, Quelled or quenched in leaves the leaping sun, {'A}ll f{'e}lled, f{'e}lled, are {'a}ll f{'e}lled; Of a fresh |&| 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 |&| rack the growing green! Since country is so tender To t{'o}uch, her b{'e}ing s{'o} sl{'e}nder, That, like this sleek |&| 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.