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Gerard Manley Hopkins:
"All is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;
And wear's man's smudge and shares man's smell; the soil
Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod."
When I see (as in the image and as described in Hopkins' poem) the constant smudging, building, tearing down, lifting up out of contact with that world that Hopkins wrote as charged with grandeur—I grieve.
But then Hopkins went on, with a promise of hope:
"And for all this, nature is never spent;
There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;
And though the last lights off the black West went
Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs . . .