Poems by Gerard Manley Hopkins

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Now Time's Andromeda on this rock rude,
As kingfishers catch fire, dragonflies dráw fláme;
Not of all my eyes see, wandering on the world,
God with honour hang your head,
My aspens dear, whose airy cages quelled,
How lovely the elder brother's
As a dare-gale skylark scanted in a dull cage
Not, I'll not, carrion comfort, Despair, not feast on thee;
Beyond Mágdalen and by the Bridge, on a place called there the Plain,
Towery city and branchy between towers;
Hark, hearer, hear what I do; lend a thought now, make believe
Felix Randal the farrier, O he is dead then? my duty all ended,
I bear a basket lined with grass;
What being in rank-old nature should earlier have that breath been
The sea took pity: it interposed with doom:
The furl of fresh-leaved dogrose down
Strike, churl; hurl, cheerless wind, then; heltering hail
Repeat that, repeat,
Denis, whose motionable, alert, most vaulting wit
'The child is father to the man.'
The world is charged with the grandeur of God.
Hard as hurdle arms, with a broth of goldish flue
I have desired to go
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 a
Hope holds to Christ the mind's own mirror out
Summer ends now; now, barbarous in beauty, the stooks rise
I Wake and feel the fell of dark, not day.
Honour is flashed off exploit, so we say;
I remember a house where all were good
This darksome burn, horseback brown,
Thou art indeed just, Lord, if I contend
I Awoke in the Midsummer not to call night, |in the white and the walk of the morning:
The dappled die-away
My own heart let me have more pity on; let
The times are nightfall, look, their light grows less;
No worst, there is none. Pitched past pitch of grief,
O I admire and sorrow! The heart's eye grieves
Patience, hard thing! the hard thing but to pray,
When will you ever, Peace, wild wooddove, shy wings shut,
For the Visitors' Book at the Inn
Glory be to God for dappled things -
Earth, sweet Earth, sweet landscape, with leavès throng
Earnest, earthless, equal, attuneable, | vaulty, voluminous, . . stupendous
Nothing is so beautiful as spring -
Márgarét, áre you gríeving
ACT I. Sc. I
The best ideal is the true
CLoud-Puffball, torn tufts, tossed pillows | flaunt forth, then chevy on an air-
Wild air, world-mothering air,
A bugler boy from barrack (it is over the hill
Some candle clear burns somewhere I come by.
Elected Silence, sing to me
'But tell me, child, your choice; what shall I buy
Sometimes a lantern moves along the night,
May is Mary's month, and I
On ear and ear two noises too old to end
The shepherd's brow fronting forked lightning, owns
Yes. Whý do we áll, seeing of a soldier, bless him? bless
Look at the stars! look, look up at the skies!
I caught this morning morning's minion, kingdom of daylight's dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Fal- con, in his riding
Teevo cheetio cheevio chee:
To the happy memory of five Franciscan Nuns exiles by the Falk Laws drowned between midnight and morning of Dec. 7th. 1875
Mortal my mate, bearing my rock-a-heart
The fine delight that fathers thought; the strong
To seem the stranger lies my lot, my life
To what serves mortal beauty | dangerous; does set danc-
Tom - garlanded with squat and surly steel
What shall I do for the land that bred me,