Inversnaid
This dark-some burn, horseback brown,
His roll-rock highroad roaring down,
In coop and in comb the fleece of his foam Flutes and low to the lake falls
home.
A wind-puff-bonnet of fáwn-fróth
Turns and twindles over the broth
Of a pool so pitch-black, féll-frówning,
It rounds and rounds Despair to drowning.
Degged with dew, dappled with dew
Are the groins of the braes that the brook treads through,
Wiry heath-packs, flitches of fern,
And the bead-bonny 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.
-- Gerard Manley Hopkins
