Where shade once was, the oak tree in a sprawl
Of d**h no longer writhes against the wind.
The people say: I see now. It was tall!
Now here and there slight nests of springtime find
Themselves dependent on a severed height.
The people say: I see now. It was kind!
The people praise. The people cut. Twilight
Comes and they haul their loads off. In the air
A cry...a cry of one young wren in flight
Seeking a nest that is no longer there.