Life poems
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Morning Midday And Evening Sacrifice
© Gerard Manley Hopkins
The dappled die-away
Cheek and wimpled lip,
The gold-wisp, the airy-grey
Eye, all in fellowship
Thee, God, I Come from
© Gerard Manley Hopkins
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.
The May Magnificat
© Gerard Manley Hopkins
Is it only its being brighter
Than the most are must delight her?
Is it opportunest
And flowers finds soonest?
To Seem The Stranger Lies My Lot, My Life
© Gerard Manley Hopkins
I am in Ireland now; now I am at a thírd
Remove. Not but in all removes I can
Kind love both give and get. Only what word
Wisest my heart breeds dark heaven's baffling ban
Bars or hell's spell thwarts. This to hoard unheard,
Heard unheeded, leaves me a lonely began.
May Magnificat
© Gerard Manley Hopkins
May is Mary's month, and I
Muse at that and wonder why:
Her feasts follow reason,
Dated due to season
The Loss Of The Eurydice
© Gerard Manley Hopkins
The Eurydiceit concerned thee, O Lord:
Three hundred souls, O alas! on board,
Some asleep unawakened, all un-
warned, eleven fathoms fallen
The Silver Jubilee
© Gerard Manley Hopkins
THOUGH no high-hung bells or din
Of braggart bugles cry it in
What is sound? Nature's round
Makes the Silver Jubilee.
The Sea And The Skylark
© Gerard Manley Hopkins
How these two shame this shallow and frail town!
How ring right out our sordid turbid time,
Being pure! We, life's pride and cared-for crown,
Spelt From Sibyl's Leaves
© Gerard Manley Hopkins
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 to the height
Waste; her earliest stars, earl-stars, ' stárs principal, overbend us,
The Caged Skylark
© Gerard Manley Hopkins
Not that the sweet-fowl, song-fowl, needs no rest
Why, hear him, hear him babble and drop down to his nest,
But his own nest, wild nest, no prison.
No Worst, There Is None. Pitched Past Pitch Of Grief
© Gerard Manley Hopkins
O the mind, mind has mountains; cliffs of fall
Frightful, sheer, no-man-fathomed. Hold them cheap
May who ne'er hung there. Nor does long our small
Durance deal with that steep or deep. Here! creep,
Wretch, under a comfort serves in a whirlwind: all
Life death does end and each day dies with sleep.
Brothers
© Gerard Manley Hopkins
How lovely the elder brother's
Life all laced in the other's,
Lóve-laced!what once I well
Witnessed; so fortune fell.
Thou Art Indeed Just, Lord, If I Contend
© Gerard Manley Hopkins
Justus quidem tu es, Domine, si disputem tecum:
verumtamen justa loquar ad te:
Quare via impiorum prosperatur? &c.
The Blessed Virgin Compared To The Air We Breathe
© Gerard Manley Hopkins
Wild air, world-mothering air,
Nestling me everywhere,
That each eyelash or hair
Girdles; goes home betwixt
I Wake And Feel The Fell Of Dark, Not Day
© Gerard Manley Hopkins
I wake and feel the fell of dark, not day.
What hours, O what black hours we have spent
This night! what sights you, heart, saw; ways you went!
And more must, in yet longer light's delay.
Dtatue And The Bust, The
© Robert Browning
There's a palace in Florence, the world knows well,
And a statue watches it from the square,
And this story of both do our townsmen tell.
Protus
© Robert Browning
Here's John the Smith's rough-hammered head. Great eye,
Gross jaw and griped lips do what granite can
To give you the crown-grasper. What a man!
An Epistle Containing the Strange Medical Experience of Kar
© Robert Browning
Karshish, the picker-up of learning's crumbs,
The not-incurious in God's handiwork
(This man's-flesh he hath admirably made,
Blown like a bubble, kneaded like a paste,
Aix In Provence
© Robert Browning
Christ God who savest man, save most
Of men Count Gismond who saved me!
Count Gauthier, when he chose his post,
Chose time and place and company
To suit it; when he struck at length
My honour, 'twas with all his strength.
A Serenade At The Villa
© Robert Browning
That was I, you heard last night,
When there rose no moon at all,
Nor, to pierce the strained and tight
Tent of heaven, a planet small:
Life was dead and so was light.
