Gerard Manley Hopkins

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,

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

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

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

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

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

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

I remember a house where all were good To me, God knows, deserving no such thing: Comforting smell breathed at very entering, Fetched fresh, as I suppose, off some sweet wood. That cordial air

Laybrother of the Society of Jesus Honour is flashed off exploit, so we say; And those strokes once that gashed flesh or galled shield Should tongue that time now, trumpet now that field, And,

Moonless darkness stands between. Past, the Past, no more be seen! But the Bethlehem-star may lead me To the sight of Him Who freed me From the self that I have been. Make me

I caught this morning morning’s minion, king- dom of daylight’s dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding High there, how he rung upon the rein

My prayers must meet a brazen heaven And fail and scatter all away. Unclean and seeming unforgiven My prayers I scarcely call to pray. I cannot buoy my heart above; Above I cannot entrance

What shall I do for the land that bred me, Her homes and fields that folded and fed me?- Be under her banner and live for her honour: Under her banner I’ll live for

Towery city and branchy between towers; Cuckoo-echoing, bell-swarmèd, lark-charmèd, rook-racked, river-rounded; The dapple-eared lily below thee; that country and town did Once encounter in, here coped and poisèd powers; Thou hast a base and

Repeat that, repeat, Cuckoo, bird, and open ear wells, heart-springs, delightfully sweet, With a ballad, with a ballad, a rebound Off trundled timber and scoops of the hillside ground, hollow hollow hollow ground: The

The poet wishes well to the divine genius of Purcell and praises him that, whereas other musicians have given utterance to the moods of man’s mind, he has, beyond that, uttered in notes the

Some candle clear burns somewhere I come by. I muse at how its being puts blissful back With yellowy moisture mild night’s blear-all black, Or to-fro tender trambeams truckle at the eye. By that

. . . . . . . . Hope holds to Christ the mind’s own mirror out To take His lovely likeness more and more. It will not well, so she would bring about

‘The child is father to the man.’ How can he be? The words are wild. Suck any sense from that who can: ‘The child is father to the man.’ No; what the poet did

And he said, If the Lord do not help thee, whence shall I help thee? out of the barnfloor, or out of the winepress? 2 Kings VI: 27 Thou that on sin’s wages starvest,

The shepherd’s brow, fronting forked lightning, owns The horror and the havoc and the glory Of it. Angels fall, they are towers, from heaven-a story Of just, majestical, and giant groans. But man-we, scaffold

Not, I’ll not, carrion comfort, Despair, not feast on thee; Not untwist-slack they may be-these last strands of man In me уr, most weary, cry I can no more. I can; Can something, hope,

When will you ever, Peace, wild wooddove, shy wings shut, Your round me roaming end, and under be my boughs? When, when, Peace, will you, Peace? I’ll not play hypocrite To own my heart:

My window shews the travelling clouds, Leaves spent, new seasons, alter’d sky, The making and the melting crowds: The whole world passes; I stand by. They do not waste their meted hours, But men

Thee, God, I come from, to thee go, All day long I like fountain flow From thy hand out, swayed about Mote-like in thy mighty glow. What I know of thee I bless, As

Earth, sweet Earth, sweet landscape, with leavés throng And louchéd low grass, heaven that dost appeal To, with no tongue to plead, no heart to feel; That canst but only be, but dost that

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

Beyond Mбgdalen and by the Bridge, on a place called there the Plain, In Summer, in a burst of summertime Following falls and falls of rain, When the air was sweet-and-sour of the flown

To him who ever thought with love of me Or ever did for my sake some good deed I will appear, looking such charity And kind compassion, at his life’s last need That he

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

A Brother and Sister O I admire and sorrow! The heart’s eye grieves Discovering you, dark tramplers, tyrant years. A juice rides rich through bluebells, in vine leaves, And beauty’s dearest veriest vein is

felled 1879 My aspens dear, whose airy cages quelled, Quelled or quenched in leaves the leaping sun, All felled, felled, are all felled; Of a fresh and following folded rank Not spared, not one

Now Time’s Andromeda on this rock rude, With not her either beauty’s equal or Her injury’s, looks off by both horns of shore, Her flower, her piece of being, doomed dragon’s food. Time past

Summer ends now; now, barbarous in beauty, the stooks arise Around; up above, what wind-walks! what lovely behaviour Of silk-sack clouds! has wilder, wilful-wavier Meal-drift moulded ever and melted across skies? I walk, I

upon the Unemployed Tom-garlanded with squat and surly steel Tom; then Tom’s fallowbootfellow piles pick By him and rips out rockfire homeforth-sturdy Dick; Tom Heart-at-ease, Tom Navvy: he is all for his meal Sure,

Hard as hurdle arms, with a broth of goldish flue Breathed round; the rack of ribs; the scooped flank; lank Rope-over thigh; knee-nave; and barrelled shank- Head and foot, shoulder and shank- By a

Earnest, earthless, equal, attuneable, ‘ vaulty, voluminous, … stupendous Evening strains to be tíme’s vást, ‘ womb-of-all, home-of-all, hearse-of-all night. Her fond yellow hornlight wound to the west, ‘ her wild hollow hoarlight hung

Pure fasted faces draw unto this feast: God comes all sweetness to your Lenten lips. You striped in secret with breath-taking whips, Those crooked rough-scored chequers may be pieced To crosses meant for Jesu’s;

I awoke in the Midsummer not to call night, in the white and the walk of the morning: The moon, dwindled and thinned to the fringe of a finger-nail held to the candle, Or