Classic Poem

Where shade was once, the dead oak lies in state
and will no longer with the whirlwinds sway.
And now they say: Behold, the tree was great!

Still, here and there, up in the tree-top stay
the little bird's-nests that the springtimes leave.
Behold, the tree was good! the people say.

Each one commends and each one cuts. At eve
each goes away with heavy bundle bound.
In the air a plaint. . . . I hear a black-cap grieve,

that's looking for a nest, she'll ne'er have found.