THE WORLD is charged with the grandeur of God. |
It will flame out, like shining from shook foil; |
It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil |
Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod? |
Generations have trod, have trod, have trod; |
And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil; |
And wears man’s smudge and shares man’s smell: the soil |
Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod. |
And for all this, nature is never spent; |
There lives the dearest freshness deep down things; |
And though the last lights off the black West went |
Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs— |
Because the Holy Ghost over the bent |
World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings. |
Hopkins' poem seems to fit perfectly with this picture from our driveway...
I could NOT get rid of that white box!!
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