...the buds are slow...

To Oxford

As Devonshire letters, earlier in the year

Than we in the East dare look for buds, disclose

Smells that are sweeter-memoriéd than the rose,

And presséd violets in the folds appear,

So it is with my friends, I note, to hear

News from Belleisle, even such a sweetness blows^o

(I know, knowing not) across from those

Meadows to them inexplicably dear.

‘As when a soul laments, which hath been blest’---^o

And undivulgéd love does overflow.

~Fr. Hopkins

…disabling cold,

And hunting winds and the long-lying snow.

Is it a wonder if the buds are slow?

Or where is strength to make the leaf unfold?

Chilling remembrance of my days of old

Afflicts no less, what yet I hope may blow,

That seed which the good sower once did sow,

So loading with obstruction that threshold ^o

~Fr. Hopkins, from ‘See How Spring Opens’

=============

Ah no!..............

I know of the bored and bitten rocks

Not so far outward in the sea:…..

~Fr. Hopkins, from ‘Continuation of R. Garnett’s Nix’

[ibid. pp.68-69]