Nothing is so beautiful as spring - when weeds, in wheels, shoot

Gerard Manley Hopkins, the Jesuit poet whose words are steeped in fire and faith, once wrote with rapture: “Nothing is so beautiful as spring — when weeds, in wheels, shoot long and lovely and lush; thrush’s eggs look little low heavens, and thrush through the echoing timber does so rinse and wring the ear, it strikes like lightning to hear him sing.” In this burst of language, Hopkins lifts us into a vision where the ordinary becomes transfigured, where the very weeds of the field glow with loveliness, and the voice of a simple bird becomes a bolt of heaven striking the human ear.

The origin of this utterance is Hopkins’ lifelong union of religious faith and natural wonder. For him, the world was not a dull stage but a living hymn — every blade of grass, every bird, every blossom a note in the great song of creation. His poetry, dense with sound and image, sought to capture what he called “inscape,” the unique inner glory of each created thing. Thus, when he beheld spring, he did not see only plants and birds but the very radiance of divine renewal, spilling over into colors, sounds, and scents too intense for plain speech.

The weeds, often despised, he exalts as “long and lovely and lush.” In their curling growth, their humble vitality, Hopkins discerns beauty as profound as that of cultivated flowers. This is the lesson of his vision: that no part of nature is without worth, that even what men call “lowly” has its own splendor when beheld with awakened eyes. The thrush’s eggs, speckled and fragile, are to him “little low heavens” — tiny universes of life, glowing with the promise of flight and song.

The thrush’s song, echoing through timber, is no mere birdcall in Hopkins’ hearing. It rinses the ear, cleansing it like baptismal waters, and then strikes like lightning, with the sudden force of revelation. To Hopkins, such music was not only delightful but sacramental: the created world speaking directly to the soul, charging it with awe. Just as Moses heard the voice from the burning bush, so Hopkins heard the divine voice in the thrush, reminding mankind that the world itself is a cathedral if only we learn to listen.

History confirms this transformative power of spring’s beauty. In times of war or hardship, the sight of blossoms, the sound of birds, have restored courage to the broken. During World War I, soldiers in muddy trenches wrote of how the sudden blooming of poppies brought them a breath of hope, a reminder that life still flourished amidst death. Here again is Hopkins’ truth: even in chaos, the spring still arrives, whispering resilience and beauty to weary souls.

The deeper meaning, then, is that beauty is both gift and revelation. It is not luxury, but necessity for the spirit. Hopkins shows us that to encounter spring is to be struck with wonder, to feel the very heart cleansed and renewed. To ignore this beauty is to starve the soul; to receive it is to be lifted into a joy that borders on the divine.

The lesson for us is simple yet profound: open your eyes and ears to the world around you. Do not walk past the weeds without noticing their “lovely and lush” green. Do not ignore the bird’s song, for it may be the very lightning your spirit needs to awaken. Allow the smallest things — the color of an egg, the curve of a leaf, the sound of wind in wood — to remind you of the grandeur of life and the mystery of creation.

Thus, let Hopkins’ words be a guide for every season: “Nothing is so beautiful as spring … it strikes like lightning to hear him sing.” Carry this truth with you as armor against despair. For as long as spring returns, beauty endures, and as long as beauty endures, there is hope for the human soul.