Binsey Poplars

Felled autumn, as time tossed these trees,
In the end of day they will burn,
Wait for a blaze in the way it leaves,
And thus go near—those hollowed locks now wheeze,
Like banshees howling of fall’s slow yearn. — but then the fire will cease to rise,
And thus, in the breath of mild, waft your sigh by now, And love! do cross that turbid place in bare bows.

— Gerard Manley Hopkins

• Gerard Manley Hopkins