SPELT FROM SYBIL’S LEAVES

Earnest, earthless, equal, attuneable,|vaulty,
voluminous, . . . stupendous
Evening strains to be tíme’s vást,|womb-of-all, home-
of-all, hearse-of-all night.
Her fond yellow hornlight wound to the west, |her wild
hollow hoarlight hung to the height
Waste; her earliest stars, earlstars,|stárs principal,
overbend us,
Fíre-féaturing heaven.  For earth|her being has
unbound; her dapple is at an end, as-
tray or aswarm, all throughther, in throngs;|self ín self
steepèd and páshed – qúite
Disremembering, dísmémbering|áll now.  Heart, you
round me right
With: Óur évening is over us; óur night|whélms,
whélms, ánd will end us.
Only the beakleaved boughs dragonish|damask the
tool-smooth bleak light; black,
Ever so black on it.  Óur tale, O óur oracle!|Lét life,
wáned, ah lét life wind
Off hér once skéined stained véined varíety|upon, áll
on twó spools; párt, pen, páck
Now her áll in twó flocks, twó folds – black, white;|
right, wrong; reckon but, reck but, mind
But thése two; wáre of a wórld where bút these|twó
tell, each off the óther; of a rack
Where, selfwrung, selfstrung, sheathe- and shelterless,
|thóughts agaínst thoughts ín groans grínd.

—Gerald Manley Hopkins

I read it aloud here. I think it needs to be read aloud. The language is too tasty to not.

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