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 all trades, 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.
Gerard Manley Hopkins
Not my God, but my sense of glory in this glorious patterning.
I remember studying that poem at school. It made little sense to a 12-year-old; I couldn't see beyond the words, and I think too I was put off by that first line.
It took about 30 years before I finally "got it". But I'm glad I did.
Or maybe in some way I did get it back then; I don't remember encountering it again, but I know the words stuck in my mind, waiting for the day, decades later, when suddenly something would click into place and they'd make sense.
I feel the same way as you do about GMH's poem. It's wonderful, and it speaks of the world's wonderful variegation, but to give credit for all that to some God-daddy is a kindergarten step I'm no longer willing to make.