Glory be to God for dappled things --
For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;
For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;
Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches' wings;
Landscape plotted and pieced -- fold, fallow, and plough;
And all trades, their gear and tackle and trim.
All things counter, original, spare, strange;
Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)
With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;
He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:
Gerard Manley Hopkins, in W. H. Gardner and N. H. MacKenzie (editors), The Poems of Gerard Manley Hopkins (Oxford University Press, Fourth Edition, 1967). "Brinded" (line 2) is not a misprint: it is an "early form of 'brindled,' streaked." Ibid, page 269.
John Inchbold, "The Moorland (Dewar-stone, Dartmoor)" (1854)
While the expansiveness of the day drew me outward and upward, I still had thought for the ground beneath my feet. At this time of year it seems alive -- warm with life. Lines from John Drinkwater's "The Wood," which appeared here a few months ago, are apt:
While everywhere, above me, underfoot,
And haunting every avenue of leaves,
Was mystery, unresting, taciturn.
Caught up in our own small worlds, we need to spare a thought now and then for the countless worlds above, around, and below us.
John Inchbold, "Anstey's Cove, Devon" (1854)
Through the pale green forest of tall bracken-stalks,
Whose interwoven fronds, a jade-green sky,
Above me glimmer, infinitely high,
Towards my giant hand a beetle walks
In glistening emerald mail; and as I lie
Watching his progress through huge grassy blades
And over pebble boulders, my own world fades
And shrinks to the vision of a beetle's eye.
Within that forest world of twilight green
Ambushed with unknown perils, one endless day
I travel down the beetle-trail between
Huge glossy boles through green infinity . . .
Till flashes a glimpse of blue sea through the bracken asway,
And my world is again a tumult of windy sea.
Wilfrid Gibson, Neighbours (1920).
Gibson's beetle-world brings to mind the opening stanza of Geoffrey Scott's "All Our Joy Is Enough":
All we make is enough
Barely to seem
A bee's din,
A beetle-scheme --
For God to dream:
John Inchbold, "Bolton Abbey" (1853)