Stone Poet

In a strange kind of portent, one I think Hopkins would have liked, Terry and I were talking about him last night, the night before he died in 1889. His last words, according to W.H. Gardner:

"I am so happy, so happy."

Gerard Manley Hopkins
(July 28, 1844 - June 8, 1889)
thanks to Wood S Lot

The master, some say inventor, of Sprung Rhythym loved the natural features of his neighborhood, including the way natural speech occurred in the 'hood. That's why he broke from the mold of what he called the "same and tame" of formal English verse and went for the Anglo-Saxon roots which are, after all, only natural.
Sprung Rhythym in Wikipedia

Pied Beauty

Glory be to God for dappled things—
For skies of couple-colour as a brindled 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 trades, their gear and tackle and trim.

All things counter, original, spáre, strange;
Whatever is fickle, frecklèd (who knows how?)
With swíft, slów; sweet, sóur; adázzle, dím;
He fathers-forth whose beauty is pást change:
Práise hím.

"All things counter, original, spare, strange" is a good way to talk about his view of the individuality of experience in the whole, that unified cohesion of the universe that blossoms into one individual thing, like a tree or a flower, what he called its "inscape." The concept puts the observer always in the present, which is the totality of all time, like looking at a bluebell:

"One day when the bluebells were in bloom I wrote the following. I do not think I have ever seen anything more beautiful than the bluebell I am looking at. I know the beauty of our Lord by it." (from an entry in his Journal)

And God, for this Romantic poet, is best seen in nature:

God's Grandeur

The world is charged with the grandeur of God.
It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;
It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil
Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod?
Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;
And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;
And wears man's smudge |&| shares man's smell: the soil
Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.

And for all this, nature is never spent;
There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;
And though the last lights off the black West went
Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs --
Because the Holy Ghost over the bent
World broods with warm breast |&| with ah! bright wings.