 Binsey Poplars by Gerard Manley Hopkins Red for LibriVox.org by Bruce Gachuk My Aspen's 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 sandalt, Shadow that swam or sank, on meadow and river, and Wind-wondering weed-winding bank, O, if we but knew what we'd do, when we'd delve or Hew, hack and rack the growing green, Since country is so tender to touch, her being so 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, aftercomers cannot guess the beauty being. Ten or twelve, only ten or twelve strokes of havoc unself The sweet, a special scene, Rural scene, a rural scene, sweet, a special, rural scene. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Binsie Popplers by Gerard Manley Hopkins Red for LibriVox.org by Caitlin Buckley My Aspen's 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 sandaled shadow that swam or sank on meadow and river, and Wind-wondering weed-winding bank, O, if we but knew what we'd do, when we'd delve or Hew, hack and rack the growing green, Since country is so tender to touch, her being so 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. Aftercomers cannot guess the beauty being. Ten or twelve. Only ten or twelve strokes of havoc unself the sweet, a special scene, Rural scene, a rural scene, sweet, a special, rural scene. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Lindsay Poplars by Gerard Manley Hopkins Read for LibriVox.org by Craig Franklin My Aspen's dear whose airy cage is 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 sandaled shadow that swam or sank on a meadow and river, and The wind-wandering weed-winding bank. Oh, 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 so 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 guest the beauty-bean. Ten or twelve, only ten or twelve, Strokes of havoc unself, the sweet, a special scene, Rural scene, a rural scene, sweet, a special, rural scene. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Binsie Publars by Gerard Manley Hopkins, read for Libberfogs.org by Chad Horner. My Aspen's Deer, 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 sandaled shadow that swam or sank on a meadow and river, And wind-wandering weed-winding bank. Oh, 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 so slender that, like the 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, and we hew or delve. After-comers cannot guest the beauty-bean. Ten or twelve, only ten or twelve, Strokes of havoc unself, the sweet, a special scene, Rural scene, a rural scene, End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. Bincey Popplars by Gerard Manley Hawkins, Read for LibriVox by Courtney Brooks. My Aspen's Deer, whose airy cages quelled, Quelled or quenched in leaves the leaping sun, All felled, felled, all are felled, Of a fresh and following folded rank, Not spared, not won, the dandle to sand-dandle, Shadow that swam or sank, on a meadow and river, And wind wandering, weed-winding bank. Oh, 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 so slender that, like the sleek and seeing ball, But a prick will make no eye at all, Where we, even where we need to mend her, We end her, where we hew or delve, Aftercomers cannot guess the beauty bin. Ten or twelve, only ten or twelve, Strokes of havoc unself, The sweet, a special scene, Rural scene, a rural scene, Sweet, a special rural scene. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Binsley Poplars by Gerard Manley Hopkins Read for LibriVox.org by David Lawrence My Aspen's Deer, 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 sandled shadow that swam or sank on meadow, And river, and wind wandering, weed-winding bank. Oh, 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 so 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. Aftercomers cannot guess the beauty bin. Ten or twelve, only ten or twelve, Strokes of havoc unself, The sweet, a special scene, Rural scene, a rural scene, Sweet, a special, rural scene. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Binsey Poplars by Gerard Manley Hopkins Read for LibriVox.org by Eva Davis My aspen's tear, 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 sandled Shadow that swam or sank on meadow and river, And wind-wandering, weed-winding bank. Oh, if we but knew what we'd do when we'd delve or hew, Hack and rack the growing green, Since country is so tender, To touch her being so slender, That like this sleek and seeing ball, But a prick will make no eye at all, Where we, even where, we mean to mentor, We enter when we hew or delve. Aftercomers cannot guess the beauty bin. Ten or twelve, only ten or twelve, Strokes of havoc unself, The sweet a special scene, rural scene, a rural scene, Sweet a special rural scene. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. Binsey Poplars by Gerard Manley Hopkins Read for LibriVox.org by Newgate Novelist My aspen's 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 sandled Shadow that swam or sank on meadow and river, And wind-wandering, weed-winding bank. Oh, 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 so slender, That, like this sleek and seeing ball, But a prick will make no eye at all, Where we, even where, we mean to mentor, We enter When we hew or delve, aftercomers, Cannot guess the beauty-bean, Ten or twelve, only ten or twelve Strokes of havoc, Unself, the sweetest special scene, rural scene, A rural scene, sweetest special rural scene. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. Binsee Popplas by Gerard Manley Hopkins, Read for Leprivox.org by Harshata. My aspen's deal, 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 won, That dandles a sandaled, Shadow that swam or sank, On middle and river, And wind wandering, weed winding bank, Oh, 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 so slender, That, like this sleek and sing 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, Aftercomers cannot guess the beauty-bean, Ten or twelve, only ten or twelve Strokes of havoc, Unself, the sweetest special scene, Rural scene, a rural scene, Sweetest special rural scene. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. Binsy Popplis by Jared Malley Hopkins, Read for Leprivox.org by Ian King. My aspen's deal, 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's dandled a sandled Shadow that's swam or sank, On meadow and river, And wind wandering, weed winding bank, Oh, 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 so 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, Aftercomers cannot guess the beauty-bean, Ten or twelve, only ten or twelve, Strokes of havoc, Unsell for the sweetest special scene, Rural scene, a rural scene, Sweet a special rural scene. Binsy Popplis by Jared Malley Hopkins, Read for LibriVox.org by Kay Hand. My Aspen's dear, whose airy cages quelled, Quelled or quenched in leaves the leaping sun, All felled, felled, all are felled, Of a fresh and following folded rank, Not spared, not one, That dandled a sandled, Shadow that's swam or sank, On meadow and river, And wind wandering, weed winding bank. Oh, 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 so 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 bean, Ten or twelve, Only ten or twelve, Strokes of havoc unself, The sweet a special scene, Rural scene, a rural scene, Sweet a special rural scene. Benzie Poplars, Felt 1879, My aspen's dear, whose airy cages quelled, Quelled or quenched in leaves the leaping sun, All felled, felled, all are felled, Of a fresh and following folded rank, Not spared, not one, That dandled a sandled, Shadow that swam or sank on meadow and river, And wind wandering weed winding bank. Oh, 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, For being so 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 and dwell, After comers cannot guess the beauty bean, Ten or twelve, Only ten or twelve, Strokes of havoc unself, The sweet a special scene, Rural scene, a rural scene, Sweet a special rural scene. And a poem, this recording is in the public domain. Benzie Popplers by Gerard Manley Hopkins Read for LibriVox.org by Leanne Howlett My Aspen's 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 sandled, Shadow that swam or sank, On meadow and river, And wind-wandering weed-winding bank. Oh, 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 so 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. Aftercomers cannot guess the beauty being. Ten or twelve, only ten or twelve, Strokes of havoc unself, The sweet a special scene, Rural scene, a rural scene, Sweet a special rural scene. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. Vinzy Poplars by Gerard Manley Hopkins Read for LibriVox.org by Larry Wilson My Aspen's 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 sandled shadow that swam or sank, On meadow and river, and wind Wandering weed winding bank. Oh, 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 so 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. Aftercomers cannot guess the beauty, Ben. Ten or twelve, only ten or twelve Strokes of havoc unself, The sweet a special scene. Rural scene. A rural scene, sweet a special rural scene. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. Vinzy Poplars by Gerard Manley Hopkins Read for LibriVox.org by Phil Schimpf My Aspen's dear, whose airy cages quelled, Quelled or quenched and leaves the leaping sun, All felled, felled, are all felled, Of a fresh and following folded rank, Not spared, not one that dandled A sandled shadow that swam or sank, On meadow and river, and wind Wandering weed winding bank. Oh, 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 so 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-ben. Ten or twelve, only ten or twelve, Strokes of havoc unself the sweet as special scene. Rural scene, a rural scene, Sweet as special rural scene. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. Binsey Poplars, by Gerard Manley Hopkins, Read for LibriVox.org by Rumpled Poetry. My Aspen Steer, whose airy cages quelled, Quelled or quenched and leaves the leaping sun, All felled, felled, are all felled, Of a fresh and following folded rank, Not spared, not one that dandled A sandled shadow that swam or sank, On meadow and river, and wind Wandering weed winding bank. Oh, 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 so slender, That like this sneak 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-ben. Ten or twelve, only ten or twelve Strokes of havoc Unsell the sweet to special scene, Rural scene, a rural scene, Sweet as special rural scene. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Binsey Poplars, by Gerard Manley Hopkins, Read for LibriVox.org by Thomas Peter. My Aspen's dear, whose airy cages quelled, Quelled or quenched in leaves the leaping sun, All felt, felt, are all felt Of a fresh and following folded rank, Not spared, not one that dandled A sandled shadow that swam or sank, On meadow and river, And wind-wandering weed-winding bank. Oh, 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 so 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 enter, When we hew or delve, After comers cannot guess the beauty beam. Ten or twelve, only ten or twelve Strokes of havoc Unsell the sweet to special scene, Rural scene, a rural scene, Sweet, a special rural scene. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Binsie Poplars by Gerard Manley Hopkins Read for LibriVox.org by Veronica Jenkins in Ottawa, Illinois. My Aspen's 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 won, That dandled, a sandaled shadow, That swam or sank, On meadow and river, And wind-wandering weed-winding bank. Oh, 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 so 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 Ben, 10 or 12, only 10 or 12 strokes of havoc unself, The sweet, a special scene, rural scene, A rural scene, sweet, a special rural scene. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain.