Based on Shakespeare’s Sonnet LXXI
No longer mourn for trees whose boles are fled,
That forest split by the surly sullen axe,
Gave warning to the world an Age was dead,
From this bare world, with barren stumps and stacks,
Nay, if you chop this wood, remember not,
The ones that knew it; for they loved it so,
For they in your history would be forgot,
The splitting of the Wood - a time of woe.
O, if (they say) you plant again a tree,
It stands perhaps, small sapling in the clay,
But not so much as a poor Forest be.
So let them fade, even with the Ents decay:
Lest the wise world should try again to join,
An end of farmland, and of regal coin.