BINSEY POPLARS - Thomas Hood Poems


Poems » thomas hood » binsey poplars


My aspens dear, whose airy cages quelled ,
  Quelled or quenched in leaves the leaping sun,
Áll félled, félled, are áll félled;
    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 tóuch, her béing só slénder,
            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.