The Furl Of Fresh-leaved Dogrose Down

Gerard Manley Hopkins

The furl of fresh-leaved dogrose down 
His cheeks the forth-and-flaunting sun
Had swarthed about with lion-brown
    Before the Spring was done.

His locks like all a ravel-rope’s-end,
  With hempen strands in spray—
Fallow, foam-fallow, hanks—fall’n off their ranks,
  Swung down at a disarray.

Or like a juicy and jostling shock
  Of bluebells sheaved in May
Or wind-long fleeces on the flock
  A day off shearing day.

Then over his turnèd temples—here—
  Was a rose, or, failing that,
Rough-Robin or five-lipped campion clear
  For a beauty-bow to his hat,
And the sunlight sidled, like dewdrops, like dandled diamonds
  Through the sieve of the straw of the plait.

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