Hopkins stands on a shore, one ear caught by the sea’s ancient, ramping tide—now a roar, now a lulling fall—while the other catches a skylark ascending from inland, pouring out a fresh-winded, ecstatic music in crisp curls and wild spirals until it spills nothing more. Both sounds feel as old and cyclical as the moon. Then the poem’s mood darkens. These two pure voices, he feels, shame the ‘shallow and frail town’ of human life, ringing out our sordid, muddy time. We who once were life’s pride and crown have lost earth’s early cheer and charm. Now our making and making break down—everything drains fast to man’s last dust and first slime. What begins as exhilaration ends in a hushed, grieving awareness of our fall.
The Sea And The Skylark — Summary
On ear and ear two noises too old to end Trench—right, the tide that ramps against the shore; With a flood or a fall, low lull-off or all roar, Frequenting there while moon shall wear and wend. Left hand, off land, I hear the lark ascend, His rash-fresh re-winded new-skeinèd score In crisps of curl off wild winch whirl, and pour And pelt music, till none 's to spill nor spend.
How these two shame this shallow and frail town! How ring right out our sordid turbid time, Being pure! We, life's pride and cared-for crown,
Have lost that cheer and charm of earth's past prime: Our make and making break, are breaking, down To man's last dust, drain fast towards man's first slime.