crushed…. Why do men then now not reck his rod?
Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;
     And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;
     And wears man’s smudge and shares man’s smell: the soil
Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.

And, for all this, nature is never spent;
     There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;
And though the last lights off the black west went
     Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs –
Because the Holy Ghost ever the bent
     World broods with warm breast and with, ah! bright wings.

Gerald Manley Hopkins (1844-89). 1877.