Xenophile

BucklePied! Join together. Multicoloured. Just a minute. Air. All in one moment. Give way, yield, don´t collapse yet! There´s a sign, an icon. Feathers. Skill. Simply and pure. Action! Love Feathers, fetch!

Frost at Midnight

The Frost performs its secret ministry
Unhelped by any wind. The owlet´s cry
Came loud - and hark, again! loud as before. /.../

Only that film, which fluttered on the grate, 

Still flutters there, the sole unquiet thing. /.../

Echo or mirror seeking itself,
And makes a toy of Thought. /.../

To watch that fluttering stranger! /.../

– Coleridge (Feb. 1798)

The Windhover

I caught this morning morning´s minion /.../

Rebuffed the big wind. My heart is hiding
Stirred for a bird, - the achieve of, the mastery of the thing!

Brute beauty and valour and act, oh, air, pride, plume, here 
Buckle! AND the fire that breaks from thee then, a billion 
Times told lovelier, more dangerous, O my chevalier! /.../

 Pied Beauty

All things counter, original, spare, strange;
Whatever fickle, freckled (who knows how?)
With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;
He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:

Praise him.

– Hopkins (1877)