Ash Boughs

12 02 2014

hoarfrost

Not of all my eyes see, wandering on the world,
Is anything a milk to the mind so, so sighs deep
Poetry to it, as a tree whose boughs break in the sky?
Say it is ash boughs: whether on a December day and furled
Fast or they in clammyish lashtender combs creep
Apart wide and new-nestle at heaven most high.
They touch, they tabour on it, hover on it
With talons sweep
The smouldering enormous winter welkin. May
Mells blue with snow white through their fringe and fray
Of greenery and old earth gropes for, grasps at steep
Heaven with it whom she childs things by.

Gerard Manley Hopkins

a midsummer day's dream

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