A poem for Sunday

I took a stroll today and shot some pictures of trees. And stood for a while beneath my willow tree, which in no way is mine. And I know anthropomorphizing nature is a strange thing to do. But, it feels like such a friendly willow.

All the dappled light had me reciting in my head this poem we learned in school. Which goes to show, more than 20 years later, you can't beat a nun determined to implant poetry in a young mind. Sr. Nuala, I wonder if you even dared hope this would get stuck? And I wonder would you be upset that I took away the poem, but not the theology?


Pied Beauty, by G.M. Hopkins
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:

Praise him.
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