My Aspens Dear, Whose Airy Cages Quelled, Quelled Or Quenched In Leaves The Leaping Sun, All Felled, Felled, Are All Felled; Of A Fresh And Following Folded Rank Not Spared, Not One That Dandled A Sandalled Shadow That Swam Or Sank On Meadow And River And Wind-Wandering Weed-Winding Bank. O If We But Knew What We Do When We Delve Or Hew - Hack And Rack The Growing Green! Since Country Is So Tender To Touch, Her Being S' Slender, That, Like This Sleek And 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 'Nselve The Sweet Especial Scene, Rural Scene, A Rural Scene, Sweet Especial Rural Scene.