Glory Be To God For Dappled Things.

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.

I Hold With The Old-fashioned Criticism That Browning Is Not Really A Poet, That He Has All The Gifts But The One Needful And The Pearls Without The String; Rather One Should Say Raw Nuggets And Rough Diamonds.

Searching Nature I Taste Self But At One Tankard, That Of My Own Being.

And I Have Asked To Be Where No Storms Come, Where The Green Swell Is In The Havens Dumb, And Out Of The Swing Of The Sea.

Let Him Easter In Us, Be A Dayspring To The Dimness Of Us, Be A Crimson-cresseted East.