A walk through these woods, the speaker suggests, is a walk through a place emptied of its past. Once, thrushes sang here just as sweetly, though there was no garden, no mistletoe, and no children playing. A gamekeeper lived in the thatched cottage when it was new, but he himself was old, with little money—and so he rarely fired his gun among the silent beech and yew. Now he has slipped from most memories, and the only trace of him is a stuffed stoat, shrivelled and green, scentless and nearly invisible on a shed wall. The poem breathes a quiet sadness, a feeling of life receding gently into stillness. There’s no anger, just a hushed acceptance that even the people and creatures we cherish fade into scraps. The thrush’s song, the children’s feet, the keeper’s footsteps—all have gone, leaving only this fragile, almost unnoticed relic. The mood is one of tender decay, a landscape where memory clings like the last leaf to a branch.
Under the Woods — Summary
WHEN these old woods were young The thrushes' ancestors As sweetly sung In the old years.
There was no garden here, Apples nor mistletoe; No children dear Ran to and fro.
New then was this thatched cot, But the keeper was old, And he had not Much lead or gold.
Most silent beech and yew: As he went round about The woods to view Seldom he shot.
But now that he is gone Out of most memories, Still lingers on, A stoat of his,
But one, shrivelled and green, And with no scent at all, And barely seen On this shed wall.