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.