| 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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