The Laurels Are Cut Down

We go to the woods no more, the laurels are cut down.
Figures of Love in low places, the group of Naiads
See shining again in the sun as cut out crystals,
The silent waters which flowed from where they were.
The laurels are cut down, and the stag, quiet in fear,
Trembles at the sound of the horn; we go no more to the woods,
Where playing children laughed, gathered in abandon—
Among the lilies of silver moistened by the sky's tears.
Here is the grass which is reaped and the laurels which are cut down.
We go to the woods no more, the laurels are cut down.