Gerard Manley Hopkins
Thou Art Indeed Just, Lord, If I Contend
Justus quidem tu es, Domine, si disputem tecum: Verumtamen justa loquar ad te: Quare via impiorum prosperatur? &c. Thou art indeed just, Lord, if I contend With thee; but, sir, so what I plead
The Soldier
Yes. Why do we бll, seeing of a soldier, bless him? bless Our redcoats, our tars? Both these being, the greater part, But frail clay, nay but foul clay. Here it is: the heart,
At The Wedding March
God with honour hang your head, Groom, and grace you, bride, your bed With lissome scions, sweet scions, Out of hallowed bodies bred. Each be other’s comfort kind: Déep, déeper than divined, Divine charity,
May Magnificat
May is Mary’s month, and I Muse at that and wonder why: Her feasts follow reason, Dated due to season- Candlemas, Lady Day; But the Lady Month, May, Why fasten that upon her, With
Spring & Fall: To A Young Child
Margaret, are you grieving Over Goldengrove unleaving? Leaves, like the things of man, you With your fresh thoughts care for, can you? Ah! as the heart grows older It will come to such sights
The Sea Took Pity
The sea took pity: it interposed with doom: ‘I have tall daughters dear that heed my hand: Let Winter wed one, sow them in her womb, And she shall child them on the New-world
The Woodlark
Teevo cheevo cheevio chee: O where, what can thбat be? Weedio-weedio: there again! So tiny a trickle of sуng-strain; And all round not to be found For brier, bough, furrow, or grйen ground Before
To His Watch
Mortal my mate, bearing my rock-a-heart Warm beat with cold beat company, shall I Earlier or you fail at our force, and lie The ruins of, rifled, once a world of art? The telling
Inversnaid
This darksome burn, horseback brown, His rollrock highroad roaring down, In coop and in comb the fleece of his foam Flutes and low to the lake falls home. A windpuff-bonnet of fáwn-fróth Turns and
Penmaen Pool
For the Visitors’ Book at the Inn Who long for rest, who look for pleasure Away from counter, court, or school O where live well your lease of leisure But here at, here at
Epithalamion
Hark, hearer, hear what I do; lend a thought now, make believe We are leafwhelmed somewhere with the hood Of some branchy bunchy bushybowered wood, Southern dene or Lancashire clough or Devon cleave, That
My Own Heart Let Me Have More Have Pity On; Let
My own heart let me have more have pity on; let Me live to my sad self hereafter kind, Charitable; not live this tormented mind With this tormented mind tormenting yet. I cast for
Ash-Boughs
a. Not of all my eyes see, wandering on the world, Is anything a milk to the mind so, so sighs deep Poetry to it, as a tree whose boughs break in the sky.
The Handsome Heart
at a Gracious Answer ‘But tell me, child, your choice; what shall I buy You?’-‘Father, what you buy me I like best.’ With the sweetest air that said, still plied and pressed, He swung
The Caged Skylark
As a dare-gale skylark scanted in a dull cage Man’s mounting spirit in his bone-house, mean house, dwells- That bird beyond the remembering his free fells; This in drudgery, day-labouring-out life’s age. Though aloft