Our Lord Jesus Christ , My Brethren,

The Poetical Language Of An Age Should Be The Current Language Heightened.

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.

And The Headbonny Ash That Sits Over The Burn. What Would The World Be, Once Bereft Of Wet And Of Wildness? Let Them Be Left, O Let Them Be Left, Wildness And Wet: Long Live The Weeds And The Wilderness Yet.

Elected Silence, Sing To Me And Beat Upon My Whorlèd Ear, Pipe Me To Pastures Still And Be The Music That I Care To Hear.

All Things Therefore Are Charged With Love, Are Charged With God And If We Knew How To Touch Them Give Off Sparks And Take Fire, Yield Drops And Flow, Ring And Tell Of Him.