… up above, what wind-walks! what lovely behaviour
Of silk-sack clouds! has wilder, wilful-wavier
Meal-drift moulded ever and melted across skies?
The first day of March. The Hopkins quote seems inescapably apt. “Summer ends now,” it begins.
No photograph today. The images in the sonnet are vivid enough.
“The Hurrahing sonnet,” noted Hopkins in a letter, “was the outcome of half an hour of extreme enthusiasm as I walked home alone one day from fishing in the Elwy.”