Hard as hurdle arms, with a broth of goldish flue <br />Breathed round; the rack of ribs; the scooped flank; lank <br />Rope-over thigh; knee-nave; and barrelled shank— <br />Head and foot, shoulder and shank— <br />By a grey eye’s heed steered well, one crew, fall to; <br />Stand at stress. Each limb’s barrowy brawn, his thew <br />That onewhere curded, onewhere sucked or sank— <br />Soared or sank—, <br />Though as a beechbole firm, finds his, as at a roll-call, rank <br />And features, in flesh, what deed he each must do— <br />His sinew-service where do. <br /> <br />He leans to it, Harry bends, look. Back, elbow, and liquid waist <br />In him, all quail to the wallowing o’ the plough: ’s cheek crimsons; curls <br />Wag or crossbridle, in a wind lifted, windlaced— <br />See his wind- lilylocks -laced; <br />Churlsgrace, too, child of Amansstrength, how it hangs or hurls <br />Them—broad in bluff hide his frowning feet lashed! raced <br />With, along them, cragiron under and cold furls— <br />With-a-fountain’s shining-shot furls.<br /><br />Gerard Manley Hopkins<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/harry-ploughman/
