Gerard Manley Hopkins

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,

As kingfishers catch fire, dragonflies dr'w fl'me; As tumbled over rim in roundy wells Stones ring; like each tucked string tells, each hung bell's

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.

God with honour hang your head, Groom, and grace you, bride, your bed With lissome scions, sweet scions,

My aspens dear, whose airy cages quelled, Quelled or quenched in leaves the leaping sun, All felled, felled, are all felled;

How lovely the elder brother's Life all laced in the other's, L've-laced! what once I well

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;

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

Beyond M'gdalen and by the Bridge, on a place called there the Plain, In Summer, in a burst of summertime Following falls and falls of rain,

Towery city and branchy between towers; Cuckoo-echoing, bell-swarm'd, lark-charm'd, rook- racked, river-rounded; The dapple-eared lily below thee; that country and town did

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,

Felix Randal the farrier, O he is dead then? my duty all ended, Who have watched his mould of man, big-boned and hardy- handsome Pining, pining, till time when reason rambled in it and some

I bear a basket lined with grass; I am so light, I am so fair, That men must wonder as I pass

Repeat that, repeat, Cuckoo, bird, and open ear wells, heart-springs, delight- fully sweet, With a ballad, with a ballad, a rebound

Denis, whose motionable, alert, most vaulting wit Caps occasion with an intellectual fit. Yet Arthur is a Bowman: his three-heeled timber'll hit

The world is charged with the grandeur of God. It will flame out, like shining from shook foil; It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil

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 -

I have desired to go Where springs not fail, To fields where flies no sharp and sided hail

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 very make and species of man as created both in him and in all men generally. Have fair fallen, O fair, fair have fallen, so dear To me, so arch-especial a spirit as heaves in Henry Purcell,

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

Summer ends now; now, barbarous in beauty, the stooks rise Around; up above, what wind-walks! what lovely behaviour Of silk-sack clouds! has wilder, wilful-wavier

I Wake and feel the fell of dark, not day. What hours, O what black ho'rs we have spent This night! what sights you, heart, saw; ways you went!

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,

I remember a house where all were good To me, God knows, deserving no such thing: Comforting smell breathed at very entering,

This darksome burn, horseback brown, His rollrock highroad roaring down, In coop and in comb the fleece of his foam

Thou art indeed just, Lord, if I contend With thee; but, sir, so what I plead is just. Why do sinners' ways prosper? and why must

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 paring of paradisa'cal fruit, | lovely in waning but lustreless,

The dappled die-away Cheek and wimpled lip, The gold-wisp, the airy-grey

My own heart let me have more pity on; let Me live to my sad self hereafter kind, Charitable; not live this tormented mind

The times are nightfall, look, their light grows less; The times are winter, watch, a world undone: They waste, they wither worse; they as they run

No worst, there is none. Pitched past pitch of grief, More pangs will, schooled at forepangs, wilder wring. Comforter, where, where is your comforting?

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,

Patience, hard thing! the hard thing but to pray, But bid for, Patience is! Patience who asks Wants war, wants wounds; weary his times, his tasks;

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

For the Visitors' Book at the Inn Who long for rest, who look for pleasure Away from counter, court, or school

Glory be to God for dappled things – For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow; For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;

Earth, sweet Earth, sweet landscape, with leav's throng And louch'd low grass, heaven that dost appeal To, with no tongue to plead, no heart to feel;

Earnest, earthless, equal, attuneable, | vaulty, voluminous, . . stupendous Evening strains to be t'me's v'st, | womb-of-all, home-of-all, hearse-of-all night. Her fond yellow hornlight wound to the west, | her wild hollow hoarlight hung to the height

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

M'rgar't, 're you gr'eving Over Goldengrove unleaving? Le'ves, like the things of man, you

ACT I. Sc. I Enter Teryth from riding, Winefred following. T. What is it, Gwen, my girl? why do you hover and haunt me?

The best ideal is the true And other truth is none. All glory be ascrib'd to

CLoud-Puffball, torn tufts, tossed pillows | flaunt forth, then chevy on an air- built thoroughfare: heaven-roysterers, in gay-gangs | they throng; they glitter in marches. Down roughcast, down dazzling whitewash, | wherever an elm arches,

Wild air, world-mothering air, Nestling me everywhere, That each eyelash or hair

A bugler boy from barrack (it is over the hill There) - boy bugler, born, he tells me, of Irish Mother to an English sire (he

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,

Elected Silence, sing to me And beat upon my whorl'd ear, Pipe me to pastures still and be

'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,

Sometimes a lantern moves along the night, That interests our eyes. And who goes there? I think; where from and bound, I wonder, where,

THE LEADEN ECHO How to keep - is there 'ny any, is there none such, nowhere known some, bow or brooch or braid or brace, l'ce, latch or catch or key to keep Back beauty, keep it, beauty, beauty, beauty, . . . from vanishing away?

1 The Eurydice - it concerned thee, O Lord: Three hundred souls, O alas! on board,

May is Mary's month, and I Muse at that and wonder why: Her feasts follow reason,

On ear and ear two noises too old to end Trench - right, the tide that ramps against the shore; With a flood or a fall, low lull-off or all roar,

1 Though no high-hung bells or din Of braggart bugles cry it in -

Yes. Wh' do we 'll, 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,

Look at the stars! look, look up at the skies! O look at all the fire-folk sitting in the air! The bright boroughs, the circle-citadels there!

I caught this morning morning's minion, kingdom of daylight's dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Fal- con, in his riding Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing

Teevo cheetio cheevio chee: O where, what can th't be? Weedio-weedio: there again!

To the happy memory of five Franciscan Nuns exiles by the Falk Laws drowned between midnight and morning of Dec. 7th. 1875 PART THE FIRST 1

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

The fine delight that fathers thought; the strong Spur, live and lancing like the blowpipe flame, Breathes once and, quench'd faster than it came,

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

To seem the stranger lies my lot, my life Among strang'rs. Father and mother dear, Brothers and sisters are in Christ not near

To what serves mortal beauty | dangerous; does set danc- ing blood the O-seal-that-so | feature, flung prouder form Than Purcell tune lets tread to? | See: it does this: keeps warm

Tom - garlanded with squat and surly steel Tom; then Tom's fallowbootfellow piles pick By him and rips out rockfire homeforth - sturdy Dick;

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: