Hopkins asks what force in ancient nature might have first breathed the powerful, pealing music that now pours out of him. He guesses it could be a wave — a massive, beetle-browed billow — driven by a blustering southwest wind, rolling in thundering, crumbling seas under a glassy, fairy-green barrel of water. Then he shifts to another possibility: a jaunting, vaulting trumpet, as if the poem’s voice is a triumphant, assaulting blast. The speaker isn’t calmly reflecting; he’s swept up in exhilaration, feeling the raw energy of wind, water, and brass surge through his own heart-song. The mood is ecstatic and almost violent — a rushing, roaring, crashing plunge into the wild origins of inspiration, where thought and sound become indistinguishable from a storm.
What Being in Rank-Old Nature — Summary
What being in rank-old nature should earlier have that breath been That hйre pйrsonal tells off these heart-song powerful peals?— A bush-browed, beetle-brуwed bнllow is it? With a soъth-wйsterly wнnd blъstering, with a tide rolls reels Of crumbling, fore-foundering, thundering all-surfy seas in; seen Ъnderneath, their glassy barrel, of a fairy green. . . . . . . . . Or a jaunting vaunting vaulting assaulting trumpet telling