Hopkins fixes his gaze on a young countryman — perhaps a farm worker — during the last days of spring. His cheeks, tanned a lion-brown, are likened to the furled fresh leaves of a dogrose. His fair, tangled hair is compared to the frayed end of a rope, to bunched bluebells, or fleeces on sheep a day before shearing. A pink flower — a campion or rough robin — is tucked as a beauty-bow into his hat, and then the light itself takes over: it sidles through the straw plait like dew, like dandled diamonds.
The speaker’s attention is full of wonder and tenderness, not mere description. There’s a sense of fleeting, sun-drenched beauty — spring almost over, light caught in a work hat, the whole scene held for a moment before it scatters. The mood is intimate, rich with sap and sunshine, and deeply fond.