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.

Gerard Manley Hopkins

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/binsey-poplars-felled-79/