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Where shade once was, the oak 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 spring now 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.