The gracious trees drooped feathery limbs Along the quiet street; The leaves whispered tiny hymns In summer’s rain and heat.
Came loud strange men with coils of wire And posts of foreign wood; The wind, each leaf in his choir, Tiptoe, listening, stood.
The strangers went their way; the breeze Mourned, and the leaves mourned too: Holes had been hacked in all the trees To let the wire go through.
A quiet street, a row of graceful trees, and a bit of ordinary change: workmen arrive to string wire, and the trees pay for it. The first stanza paints the scene in gentle terms. The branches "droop" like feathers, and the leaves "whisper tiny hymns," as if the whole street were at peace, almost at prayer. Then the "loud strange men" turn up with their posts of "foreign wood," and the tone shifts. Even the wind, which usually moves freely, stops and listens, tiptoeing like someone nervous in a stranger's presence.
The ending is quietly painful. Once the workers leave, the breeze and leaves grieve over the damage: holes cut through the trees so the wire can pass. The title, "Progress," is clearly ironic. The poet doesn't argue the point outright; he lets the contrast do the work. Technology moves forward, but something peaceful and alive gets hurt along the way. The mood moves from calm to unease to sorrow.