Hopkins speaks directly to Peace as if it were a shy wild dove, circling but never settling into his life. You can feel the ache in his repeated question: when will you finally fold your wings and stay? He’s honest enough to admit that peace does visit, but only in scraps — “piecemeal peace” — which he can’t accept as the real thing, because a half-peace still leaves room for inner wars and dread.
The mood shifts from pleading to something quieter and harder-won. Instead of the peace he craves, he recognizes that God leaves him “Patience exquisite,” a patient waiting that eventually feathers its own kind of peace. And when true Peace finally arrives, Hopkins imagines it not as a gentle, cooing bird but as one that settles down to work: “He comes to brood and sit.” The final image is brooding, almost heavy — peace isn’t a soft absence of trouble but an active, watchful presence that gets on with the task of living.