Henry Vaughan’s “Unprofitableness” is a compressed but remarkably capacious devotional meditation on grace, spiritual renewal, gratitude, and the painful suspicion that the human soul cannot adequately answer the love that restores it. The poem begins in rapture—“How rich, O Lord! how fresh thy visits are!”—yet its concluding movement descends into self-accusation. This emotional reversal is not a repudiation of divine goodness; rather, it is Vaughan’s way of measuring the immeasurable distance between God’s generosity and the speaker’s apparently barren response. The poem thus inhabits a central paradox of seventeenth-century religious poetry: the more fully the believer perceives grace as a gift, the more sharply he may feel his own incapacity to repay it. Vaughan transforms this theological problem into a vivid natural drama. The speaker becomes a damaged plant, revived by the divine gaze, fragrant with new life, and yet ashamed that this flourishing seems to bear no useful fruit for the gardener who has tended it.

The title, “Unprofitableness,” announces the poem’s governing anxiety in a characteristically stern and resonant word. In modern usage, “unprofitable” often suggests mere inefficiency or lack of financial value. Vaughan’s term, however, carries a stronger biblical and moral force. It evokes the language of stewardship, fruitfulness, service, and judgment: a life is “unprofitable” when it fails to yield the good that should follow from divine care. The word directs attention away from the speaker’s feelings alone and toward the question of consequence. What has God gained, the poem asks, from restoring this soul? Has the speaker’s experience of consolation produced charity, obedience, praise, humility, or any lasting good? The title therefore refuses to let spiritual delight become self-enclosed. It turns the poem’s beautiful images of inward refreshment into a searching ethical question.

Vaughan wrote amid the extraordinary political and religious upheavals of seventeenth-century Britain. Born in 1621 in Breconshire, Wales, he was educated in England, trained in law, and later worked as a physician in his native region. His poetic career unfolded during the years surrounding the Civil Wars, the execution of Charles I, the Commonwealth, and the eventual Restoration. Such public disruptions intensified private religious reflection for many writers of the period. Vaughan’s mature poetry repeatedly seeks forms of permanence in a world experienced as fractured, transient, and spiritually endangered. His Welsh landscape, his medical attentiveness to bodily fragility, and his fervent Christian imagination all meet in poems where natural things—dew, flowers, birds, streams, stars, leaves—become signs of invisible realities. “Unprofitableness” is not a pastoral escape from history, but a spiritually charged encounter with instability. Its weather-beaten plant stands in a world where life is vulnerable to blasts, cold, mud, and decay.

The poem belongs to the devotional branch of what later critics called metaphysical poetry, though Vaughan’s voice is distinct from the urban wit and argumentative intensity often associated with John Donne. Like Donne, Vaughan dramatizes religious thought rather than merely stating doctrine. Like George Herbert, his most immediate poetic precursor, he gives theological conflict a concrete domestic or natural shape. Yet Vaughan’s poetry is especially marked by visionary tenderness, luminous landscape, and a sense that earthly creation remains penetrated by hints of Eden and eternity. In “Unprofitableness,” the plant metaphor is not decorative. It provides the poem’s entire spiritual logic. The soul is understood as living matter: susceptible to injury, responsive to nurture, capable of fragrance, but uncertain whether it can produce the fruit that love deserves.

The opening exclamation establishes the poem’s tone of astonished praise. “How rich, O Lord! how fresh thy visits are!” combines the language of abundance with the language of sensory immediacy. “Rich” suggests divine inexhaustibility, while “fresh” conveys renewal, coolness, vitality, and the relief of something newly given. The word “visits” is equally significant. God does not appear here as an abstract principle or remote first cause, but as a presence that comes near. In devotional writing, a divine “visit” may involve consolation, illumination, repentance, inward awakening, or a heightened perception of God’s nearness. Vaughan’s speaker registers such an arrival almost physically. The divine encounter has altered the atmosphere of his inner life.

Before this visitation, the speaker’s “bleak leaves” “hopeless hung,” “Sullied with dust and mud.” The phrasing is emotionally exact. “Bleak” indicates more than visual bareness; it conveys coldness, desolation, and a loss of vitality. The leaves “hung” in a posture of exhaustion rather than natural growth. Their condition is “hopeless,” a word that identifies spiritual despondency as the deepest affliction. Dust and mud further complicate the image. Dust is associated with mortality, dryness, and the fallen body; mud suggests contamination, heaviness, and a life dragged downward into worldly or sinful conditions. The speaker is not merely suffering from an external storm. He has been stained and diminished, deprived of the clean radiance that a healthy plant ought to possess.

Vaughan intensifies this condition through violent weather imagery. “Each snarling blast shot through me,” he writes, giving the wind an animal aggression. “Snarling” makes the blast seem hostile, almost predatory; it is not a neutral force of nature but an assault upon the speaker’s integrity. The verb “shot” turns air into a projectile. Suffering enters the self, piercing rather than merely surrounding it. The following description of cold showers that “nipt, and wrung / Their spiciness and blood” is startlingly corporeal. The plant’s aromatic sap becomes “spiciness,” while its life-fluid becomes “blood.” By joining botanical and human vocabulary, Vaughan makes the speaker both leaf and body, vegetation and person. Spiritual desolation is represented as an injury to the whole being: fragrance is drained away, vitality is wrung out, and the self becomes incapable of giving forth its distinctive sweetness.

That “spiciness” has particular devotional resonance. Spices in biblical and liturgical traditions may suggest sacred offerings, embalming, incense, sensual richness, and the perfumes associated with love. To lose one’s spice is therefore to lose not simply pleasure but the capacity to become an offering. Vaughan’s speaker is a plant stripped of its scent, a person whose inward life no longer rises in praise. The poem’s sensory density is crucial. Its spiritual argument does not proceed through doctrinal abstraction but through smell, warmth, wetness, color, and touch. Vaughan makes grace imaginable as a change in climate and atmosphere. The soul is not merely instructed by God; it is watered, warmed, illuminated, and made fragrant.

The turning point arrives with exquisite economy: “But since thou didst in one sweet glance survey / Their sad decays, I flourish.” The central agent of renewal is God’s “glance.” This is not a laborious intervention, nor a transaction earned by the speaker’s effort. A single “sweet” look is sufficient to reverse decay. The language recalls scriptural and mystical traditions in which God’s seeing is creative and restorative. To be seen by God is to be known without contempt, recognized in one’s damage, and called back toward life. The word “survey” can imply a comprehensive inspection, but Vaughan softens any suggestion of judgment by pairing it with “sweet.” God looks directly upon “sad decays,” yet the gaze does not destroy the decaying thing. It causes it to flourish.

This moment expresses a powerful theology of grace. The speaker has not repaired himself before receiving divine attention. He is revived in the midst of his bleakness, and the source of revival is entirely external to his own depleted powers. Such emphasis reflects the intense concern of post-Reformation devotional culture with human dependence on God. Different Christian traditions disputed the precise relation between grace, faith, will, and works, but Vaughan’s poem makes one truth emotionally undeniable: spiritual life cannot be manufactured by self-confidence. It is received. The “one sweet glance” is both tender and sovereign. It conveys a divine freedom that acts where it wills, yet it is experienced by the speaker as intimate mercy rather than coercion.

The second movement overflows with images of restored abundance. The speaker “flourish[es],” “Breath[s] all perfumes, and spice,” smells “a dew like myrrh,” and wears “in my bosom a full sun.” The expansion from the bleak leaves of the opening to this concentrated sensory plenitude is thrilling. “Myrrh,” a resin used in perfume, medicine, burial, and sacred ritual, gives the dew a rich symbolic complexity. It may evoke healing, worship, mortality, and Christ’s own suffering all at once. Dew itself has long been an emblem of blessing because it descends silently, refreshes vegetation, and arrives without human command. Here it is not ordinary moisture but aromatic grace. The speaker inhabits a world newly charged with sacramental meaning, where natural refreshment and spiritual consolation become almost indistinguishable.

The image of the “full sun” worn “in my bosom” is especially characteristic of Vaughan’s visionary imagination. The sun, ordinarily distant and external, has become inwardly possessed. The speaker does not merely stand in sunlight; he carries it in his breast. This dazzling image suggests warmth, clarity, joy, and the indwelling of divine love. Yet “wear” also gives the sun an almost garment-like quality: grace clothes the self, adorning and protecting it. The phrase resists reduction to a single theological formula because it is so sensuous and expansive. Vaughan’s achievement lies in making inward conversion feel like an enlargement of the physical world. The heart becomes a place spacious enough to contain a sun.

At the same time, the poem does not settle into uncomplicated celebration. The abundance of grace intensifies, rather than dissolves, the speaker’s conscience. “But, ah, my God! what fruit hast thou of this?” The abrupt sigh, “ah,” interrupts the luxuriant imagery with an ache of self-knowledge. The question is devastating because it comes after the speaker has described such lavish restoration. God has given dew, light, perfume, and vitality; what has he received in return? “Fruit” is the necessary counterpoint to “flourish.” A plant may look green and fragrant, but its purpose is not exhausted by appearance. Fruit represents the outward issue of inward life: the visible works of faith, the benefits rendered to others, the harvest of repentance, and the praise due to God. Vaughan’s speaker fears that he has received spiritual consolation as a private sweetness without producing the service that ought to grow from it.

The phrase “What one poor leaf did ever I yet fall / To wait upon thy wreath?” is among the poem’s most moving expressions of humility. The speaker imagines even a single fallen leaf as potentially useful if it could contribute to God’s “wreath.” A wreath may be a garland of honor, a festive adornment, or an emblem of triumph. In Christian contexts, it may also suggest the crown or wreath of glory. The speaker does not claim he can offer magnificent fruit; he asks whether even one “poor leaf” of his life has been available for God’s ornament or honor. The modesty is almost painful. A leaf is slight, transient, and easily discarded, yet the speaker longs to become useful even at that smallest scale.

This image also complicates the speaker’s self-judgment. Leaves naturally fall; their descent is part of seasonal life. Vaughan turns that natural process into an act of service—“to wait upon” God’s wreath. The phrase “wait upon” means both to attend and to serve. The leaf’s falling could become a gesture of devotion if it found a place in God’s design. There is a profound spiritual aspiration here: not the desire for grand self-assertion, but the desire to be incorporated into divine beauty. The speaker wants his frail, fading self to matter as part of a larger praise. This longing has affinities with George Herbert’s devotional poise, particularly his recurring hope that ordinary, damaged, or humble materials may be accepted by God. Yet Vaughan’s mood is darker, for he doubts whether his life has contributed even this little.

The final image of God as one who “all day” dresses “a thankless weed” gathers the poem’s themes of cultivation, patience, and unworthiness. “Dress” means to tend, cultivate, prepare, and adorn. God is imagined not as a distant ruler who dispenses occasional gifts, but as a gardener engaged in sustained, daily labor. The phrase “all day” quietly magnifies divine patience. The human soul requires continual attention, and God gives it. Yet the speaker calls himself a “weed,” a plant without desired purpose, growing where it should not or failing to justify the space and care it receives. The word “thankless” is crucial: the problem is not simply that the speaker is weak, but that he may be ungrateful. The moral crisis lies in the failure to transform received goodness into responsive love.

Vaughan’s conclusion is deliberately severe: when God’s tending is complete, “a stench or fog is all / The odor I bequeath.” This grimly reverses the earlier perfumes, spice, and myrrh. The speaker who had seemed to “Breath all perfumes” now fears that his final legacy is not fragrance but pollution. “Bequeath” introduces the language of inheritance and death. What will remain after him? What atmosphere will his life leave behind? The question has ethical as well as spiritual force. Human beings inevitably pass something on—to family, community, memory, and the world. Vaughan’s speaker fears that, despite divine gifts, he transmits only obscurity and corruption. “Fog” is a particularly effective final image because it is formless and enveloping. Unlike fruit, which can be gathered and shared, fog obscures vision and disperses without nourishment.

Yet it would be too simple to read this ending as pure despair. The very capacity to utter such self-indictment may itself be a sign of awakened conscience. The speaker’s grief over his unprofitableness demonstrates that he has not become indifferent to God. He sees the difference between perfume and stench because he has experienced the divine “dew like myrrh.” He yearns to serve because he has already been visited. In this sense, the poem performs a paradox familiar to devotional literature: contrition is not outside grace but one of grace’s effects. The self is humbled not by mere self-hatred, but by the recognition of undeserved love. Vaughan does not allow the speaker to solve this tension neatly, and that refusal is artistically and spiritually powerful. The poem ends not with complacency but with the unresolved pressure of responsibility.

“Unprofitableness” also raises philosophical questions that reach beyond its immediate Christian setting. What does it mean to be worthy of care? Can a gift ever be repaid, or does the attempt to calculate repayment misunderstand the nature of love? Vaughan’s speaker measures himself according to usefulness, fruitfulness, and return; his anxiety arises from the conviction that receiving entails obligation. Modern readers may feel both the force and the burden of this outlook. The poem’s ethical seriousness is admirable: it insists that private consolation should bear public or practical consequences. But its self-accusing intensity can also seem harsh, as though the speaker cannot permit himself to rest in the very grace he celebrates. This tension is central to the poem’s emotional complexity. It asks whether gratitude is best expressed by fruitful action, humble praise, receptive wonder, or some combination of all three.

Vaughan’s natural imagery gives this theological conflict unusual emotional immediacy. The poem does not offer an abstract sinner confronting an abstract God. It offers a living organism battered by weather, revived by dew and sunlight, then distressed by its own failure to bear fruit. That sequence makes the speaker’s predicament palpable. Most readers know, in one form or another, the experience of being restored by care—through friendship, family, art, faith, recovery, or forgiveness—and then wondering how to respond adequately. The poem’s religious language remains specific, but its emotional structure is widely recognizable. To be loved generously can be joyful and unsettling, because generosity exposes the poverty of one’s own response.

Ultimately, “Unprofitableness” is a poem of radiant gratitude shadowed by moral unease. Its brilliance lies in its refusal to separate those feelings. God’s grace is “rich” and “fresh”; it turns dust-stained bleakness into fragrance and sun. But such restoration also summons the speaker to ask what he has made of the life returned to him. Vaughan’s poem endures because it renders this question with such concentrated beauty: the soul is both garden and weed, recipient of perfume and source of fog, creature of decay and bearer of a hidden sun. In that doubleness, the poem captures a vital truth of devotional poetry and of human experience itself. We are often most aware of our insufficiency not when love is absent, but when it arrives in overwhelming abundance.

In the Valley of the Elwy, a late and luminous poem by Gerard Manley Hopkins, stands as a quiet but profound testament to the poet’s enduring spiritual wrestling, his acute sensitivity to place, and his unrelenting yearning for divine harmony. Though less frequently anthologized than “The Windhover” or “God’s Grandeur,” this poem possesses a subdued intensity that rewards patient reading. It is a work that moves with the gentle cadence of memory, yet pulses with theological urgency. Written in 1887, near the end of Hopkins’s tragically brief life, it reflects the mature voice of a Jesuit priest-poet who had long since abandoned the hope of publication, writing now for God alone—or perhaps for that elusive communion between the human soul and its Maker. The poem’s emotional core lies in its juxtaposition of earthly comfort and spiritual incompleteness, of natural abundance and human deficiency. It is, in essence, a prayer wrapped in recollection, a lamentation veiled in gratitude.

To begin with the historical and cultural context: Hopkins composed this poem while serving as Professor of Greek at University College, Dublin—a position he accepted reluctantly and which he found isolating, both intellectually and spiritually. His move to Ireland in 1884 marked a deepening of his personal desolation, compounded by poor health, professional frustration, and what he perceived as a failure to connect with his students or to make a meaningful impact through his teaching. The Ireland of the late 1880s was itself a place of political unrest and cultural ferment, but Hopkins, ever inward-turning, rarely engaged directly with these external tumults. Instead, his poetry from this period reflects an increasingly interior landscape, one haunted by the tension between divine omnipotence and human frailty.

“In the Valley of the Elwy” is set not in Ireland but in Wales, specifically in the valley of the River Elwy in Denbighshire, where Hopkins had spent time earlier in his life—likely during his years as a curate in nearby St. Asaph in the early 1870s. This geographical specificity is not incidental. For Hopkins, place was never merely backdrop; it was imbued with spiritual significance, a sacramental presence. The Welsh landscape, with its lush valleys, meandering rivers, and ancient woodlands, offered him a vision of creation untainted—or at least less tainted—by industrial modernity. It represented, in his imagination, a kind of prelapsarian purity, a world still whispering with the breath of God. The poem’s opening lines, then, are not merely nostalgic; they are sacramental. The “house where all were good / To me” is more than a memory of hospitality—it is an emblem of grace undeserved, a microcosm of divine favor.

Hopkins’s biographical trajectory lends poignant weight to this recollection. Having converted to Catholicism in 1866 and entered the Jesuit order in 1868, he had willingly surrendered not only his Anglican inheritance but also his poetic voice for nearly a decade, believing that art might distract from his religious vocation. When he returned to poetry in the mid-1870s, it was with a transformed aesthetic and spiritual vision—what he called “inscape” and “instress,” his unique terms for the individuating essence of a thing and the energy that holds it together and communicates it to the observer. In “In the Valley of the Elwy,” these concepts are subtly at work. The “comforting smell breathed at very entering” is not just olfactory detail; it is an instance of instress—the perceptual force that conveys the inscape of the house, its essential goodness, its atmosphere of grace. The scent, “fetched fresh... off some sweet wood,” becomes a synecdoche for the entire moral and spiritual environment of the place. It is nature sanctified, domesticity elevated to the level of sacrament.

The second stanza deepens this sacramental vision. The “cordial air” does not merely surround the inhabitants; it “made those kind people a hood / All over,” suggesting both protection and consecration. The image of the mother bird sheltering her eggs under her wing is drawn from the natural world, yet it carries profound theological resonance. It evokes Christ’s lament over Jerusalem—“how often I have longed to gather your children together, as a hen gathers her chicks under her wings”—but also suggests the gentler, nurturing aspect of the divine. Hopkins’s God is not only the “mighty master” invoked later in the poem but also the tender parent, the “father and fond.” The comparison to “mild nights the new morsels of spring” further reinforces this theme of gentle fecundity, of life emerging under divine auspices. Nature, in Hopkins’s vision, is not merely beautiful; it is morally coherent, aligned with divine intention. The goodness of the people in the house is not accidental; it is as natural, as inevitable, as spring’s renewal.

And yet, here lies the poem’s pivot, its moment of dissonance: “Why, it seemed of course; seemed of right it should.” The tone here is deceptively simple, almost colloquial, but beneath it simmers a profound theological unease. The apparent naturalness of grace, the ease with which kindness and comfort coexist in this remembered place, belies a deeper truth—that such harmony is not the rule but the exception, not the default state of creation but a rare and fleeting gift. The poem’s third stanza abruptly shifts from this idyllic vision to a stark acknowledgment of disharmony: “Only the inmate does not correspond.” The “inmate”—the human soul, the dweller within the body, the self—fails to match the perfection of the created world. This is not merely a personal confession; it is a universal diagnosis. Hopkins, ever the Augustinian, sees in himself—and in all humanity—the rupture between creature and Creator, the failure of the soul to live up to its divine blueprint.

The theological implications here are immense. Hopkins is not merely lamenting his own shortcomings; he is confronting the central paradox of Christian anthropology: that humans are made in the image of God, yet consistently fall short of that image. The natural world, in all its Welsh splendor—“woods, waters, meadows, combes, vales”—remains faithful to its created purpose. The air itself “wears” the beauty of creation “that build this world of Wales,” suggesting an almost sartorial elegance, a deliberate adorning by the divine hand. But the human soul, the “inmate,” is out of sync. It does not “correspond”—a word rich with philosophical and theological nuance. To correspond is to answer, to harmonize, to be in right relation. The failure to correspond is a failure of alignment, of attunement, of obedience.

This dissonance propels the poem into its final, prayerful plea: “God, lover of souls, swaying considerate scales, / Complete thy creature dear O where it fails, / Being mighty a master, being a father and fond.” Here, Hopkins synthesizes two seemingly contradictory attributes of the divine: justice and mercy, power and tenderness. The image of God “swaying considerate scales” evokes the iconography of divine judgment—the scales of justice, carefully balanced, weighing merit and demerit. Yet the adjective “considerate” softens this image, suggesting not cold impartiality but thoughtful, even compassionate deliberation. God is not a distant judge but a “lover of souls,” a phrase that echoes the language of the Spiritual Exercises of St. Ignatius Loyola, founder of the Jesuit order to which Hopkins belonged. In Ignatian spirituality, God is constantly seeking the soul, desiring its fulfillment, laboring to draw it into deeper union.

The plea to “complete thy creature” is at once humble and audacious. It acknowledges human incompleteness while simultaneously asserting the possibility—and indeed the divine intention—of completion. The word “complete” is crucial. It does not mean to punish, to correct, or even to forgive in the conventional sense. It means to bring to fullness, to realize potential, to fulfill design. Hopkins is asking God not merely to overlook his failures but to finish the work of creation within him. This is a profoundly incarnational theology: God does not abandon the flawed creature but enters into its brokenness to restore it. The final line—“Being mighty a master, being a father and fond”—encapsulates this duality. God is sovereign, all-powerful, the “master” of creation. But He is also “father and fond”—the tender parent whose love is not contingent on perfection but is given freely, even prodigally.

The emotional impact of the poem lies in this tension between gratitude and longing, between the remembered perfection of a moment and the persistent imperfection of the self. There is joy here—the joy of memory, of natural beauty, of human kindness. But there is also sorrow—the sorrow of distance, of failure, of yearning. Hopkins does not resolve this tension; he holds it in balance, allowing both emotions to coexist. The poem ends not with triumph but with entreaty, not with resolution but with reaching. And in that reaching, there is hope.

Comparatively, one might place this poem alongside George Herbert’s “The Collar” or John Donne’s Holy Sonnets, works that similarly wrestle with the soul’s relation to God, oscillating between rebellion and submission, despair and trust. But Hopkins’s voice is uniquely his own—more visceral in its physicality, more compressed in its syntax, more daring in its metaphysical leaps. Where Herbert’s God is often a patient interlocutor, and Donne’s a demanding suitor, Hopkins’s God is both architect and parent, craftsman and comforter. The natural world, in Herbert and Donne, often serves as metaphor or backdrop; in Hopkins, it is active participant, co-witness, even co-worshipper.

Philosophically, the poem engages with questions that have preoccupied thinkers from Augustine to Kierkegaard: the nature of human freedom, the problem of moral failure, the possibility of grace. Hopkins does not offer abstract solutions; he offers lived experience, rendered in concrete, sensory language. The smell of wood, the warmth of a hearth, the curve of a valley—these are not decorative details but theological data. They testify to God’s presence, even as the poet’s own heart testifies to his absence—or rather, to his elusive nearness.

What makes this poem particularly moving is its quietness. Unlike the ecstatic outbursts of “The Windhover” or the apocalyptic urgency of “That Nature is a Heraclitean Fire,” “In the Valley of the Elwy” proceeds with a kind of hushed reverence. It is a poem of twilight, not noon; of memory, not prophecy. And yet, within that quietness, there is immense power. The final plea—“Complete thy creature dear O where it fails”—is among the most tender and theologically rich lines in all of Hopkins’s work. It acknowledges failure without despair, seeks transformation without presumption, and rests in the paradox of a God who is both “mighty” and “fond.”

In our own age, marked by fragmentation, alienation, and ecological anxiety, Hopkins’s vision offers a countercultural invitation: to see the world as charged with divine presence, to recognize our own incompleteness not as cause for shame but as occasion for grace, and to trust in a Love that seeks not to condemn but to complete. The valley of the Elwy, in the end, is not merely a geographical location; it is a spiritual condition—a place of remembered wholeness, toward which the soul still strains, and in which, perhaps, it may yet find rest.

There is something profoundly human in Hopkins’s admission that the “inmate does not correspond.” How many of us, gazing back on moments of grace—a kind word, a sheltering place, a landscape that took our breath away—have felt the same dissonance? We were given beauty, and we did not deserve it. We were offered love, and we failed to reciprocate fully. We walked through gardens of abundance, yet carried within us a barrenness no earthly comfort could fill. Hopkins gives voice to this universal ache, but he does not leave us in it. He turns it into prayer. He transforms memory into petition. He takes the brokenness of the self and lays it before the One who, being both master and father, has the power—and the love—to make it whole.

This is the enduring gift of “In the Valley of the Elwy”: it does not offer easy consolation, but it offers true companionship. It says, in effect: You are not alone in your longing. You are not singular in your failure. And the God who made the woods and waters, the meadows and vales, is the same God who bends over your soul with considerate scales and tender hands, seeking not your perfection but your completion. In a world that often feels fractured and fraying, such a vision is not merely poetic—it is necessary. It is, in the deepest sense, gospel.

And so we return, again and again, to this quiet valley—not to escape the world, but to remember what the world, at its best, points toward. Not to indulge in nostalgia, but to rekindle hope. Not to worship nature, but to discern in nature the handwriting of its Author. Hopkins, in his solitude and suffering, left us this poem as a kind of spiritual compass: a reminder that even when we do not correspond, we are still beloved; that even in our incompleteness, we are being completed; that even in the valley of shadow, the scent of sweet wood still lingers, and the wing of the Mother still hovers, and the voice of the Father still whispers: I am here. I am fond. I am finishing what I began.