.The Trees Are Down"...and he cried with a loud voice: Hurt not the earth, neither the sea, nor the trees"-RevelationThey are cutting down the great plane-trees at the end ofthe gardens.For days there has been the grate of the saw, the swish ofthe branches as they fall,The crash of the trunks, the rustle of trodden leaves,With the 'Whoops' and the 'Whoa', the loud common talk,the loud common laughs of the men, above it all.(...)It is not for a moment the Spring is unmade to-day;These were great trees, it was in them from root to stem:When the men with the 'Whoops' and the 'Whoas' have cartedthe whole of the whispering loveliness awayHalf the Spring, for me, will have gone with them.It is going now, and my heart has been struck with thehearts of the planes;Half my life it has beat with these, in the sun, in the rains,In the March wind, the May breeze,In the great gales that came over to them across the roofs from the great seas.There was only a quiet rain when they were dying;They must have heard the sparrows flying,And the small creeping creatures in the earth where they were lying -But I, all day, I heard an angel crying:'Hurt not the trees.'© by Charlotte Mew (post dedicado a todos os que sentem uma profunda dor com o abate dos plátanos do Campo Pequeno em Lisboa)
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.The Trees Are Down"...and he cried with a loud voice: Hurt not the earth, neither the sea, nor the trees"-RevelationThey are cutting down the great plane-trees at the end ofthe gardens.For days there has been the grate of the saw, the swish ofthe branches as they fall,The crash of the trunks, the rustle of trodden leaves,With the 'Whoops' and the 'Whoa', the loud common talk,the loud common laughs of the men, above it all.(...)It is not for a moment the Spring is unmade to-day;These were great trees, it was in them from root to stem:When the men with the 'Whoops' and the 'Whoas' have cartedthe whole of the whispering loveliness awayHalf the Spring, for me, will have gone with them.It is going now, and my heart has been struck with thehearts of the planes;Half my life it has beat with these, in the sun, in the rains,In the March wind, the May breeze,In the great gales that came over to them across the roofs from the great seas.There was only a quiet rain when they were dying;They must have heard the sparrows flying,And the small creeping creatures in the earth where they were lying -But I, all day, I heard an angel crying:'Hurt not the trees.'© by Charlotte Mew (post dedicado a todos os que sentem uma profunda dor com o abate dos plátanos do Campo Pequeno em Lisboa)