The speaker recalls a small thicket he never really noticed until it was gone. It was just a hedge overgrown, lying a meadow’s width away, passed day after day without a thought. Now a woodman has cut it down, and the bare soil lies stark between green fields—black, like a bone. The fresh-sawn hazel twigs catch the light, gleaming almost like flowers, a small consolation for what’s been lost. But the real surprise is what the clearing reveals: a tiny winding brook, a tributary’s tributary, rising there all along. There’s a quiet sadness in this, the sting of realizing how habitually we overlook the ordinary wonders beside us. At the same time, the discovery brings a gentle, meditative clarity. The mood is hushed and solitary, turning absence into an unexpected gift—the chance to truly see what was hidden in plain sight.
First Known When Lost — Summary
I NEVER had noticed it until 'Twas gone,--the narrow copse Where now the woodman lops The last of the willows with his bill.
It was not more than a hedge overgrown. One meadow's breadth away I passed it day by day. Now the soil was bare as a bone,
And black betwixt two meadows green, Though fresh-cut faggot ends Of hazel made some amends With a gleam as if flowers they had been.
Strange it could have hidden so near! And now I see as I look That the small winding brook, A tributary's tributary, rises there.