Where shade once was, the lake tree in a sprawl
Of death no longer writhing against the wind.
The people say: "i see now. it was tall."

And 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.
Through mid-air a cry...
A blackcap crying out in flight,

Seeking a nest that is no longer there.