Pied Beauty
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.
I'm working on this one. Hmm. Which is better?
4 comments:
Pie and crisps washed down with brandied cider. What more has life to offer?
It's all good.
A while back I was asked a question by a young person.
At first I took this as an indication of respect. Ha.
It was just that no one else was there, and an informal survey was being taken, and I was showing signs of being approximately alive.
"Is cheesecake cake or pie?"
I hedged, thinking cake, and tried to inveigle the results of the survey so far.
"Pie ahead seven to five".
"In that case, definitely -- pie", I lied.
There is always going to have to be a place somewhere in this world, as Wordsworth knew, for those who would prefer cake, but accept pie.
Oh, that is funny!
Jonathan's too right. Wish I'd seen that. Would definitely have opted for double order of same, and lock up the barn.
By the way, for those who may be wondering just how it is that Wordsworth could have known that -- about the preferences I mean -- he was (as is little known) a fervent secret reader of Pope on Pie.
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