Happy Birthday Father 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 áll trádes, 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.
4 Comments:
Hey, that's my kid!
I was going to say... the young Hopkins seems awfully familiar.
I was going to say... the young Hopkins seems awfully familiar.
Yeah, she wrote this poem the other day - it reminded me of something, and I pulled down my Hokins to find that she had produced the exact same poem. Think of the probability! I mentioned it to Everett, who decided it was cool enough to post on the blog.
Kids - go figure!
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