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No wonder of it: sheer plod makes plough down sillion Shine, and blue-bleak embers, ah my dear, Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermilion.
Gerard Manley Hopkins
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Gerard Manley Hopkins
Age: 45 †
Born: 1844
Born: June 28
Died: 1889
Died: July 8
Poet
Writer
London
England
Hopkins
Blue
Gall
Gold
Plough
Embers
Wonder
Bleak
Fall
Shine
Makes
Sheer
Vermilion
Shining
Gash
Dear
Plod
More quotes by Gerard Manley Hopkins
I have desired to go Where springs not fail, To fields where flies no sharp and sided hail And a few lilies blow.
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Beauty is a relation, and the apprehension of it a comparison.
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What is all this juice and all this joy?
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God?is so great that all things give him glory if you mean they should.
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Any day, any minute we bless God for our being or for anything, for food, for sunlight, we do and are what we were meant for, madefor--things that give and mean to give God glory.
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Let Him easter in us, be a dayspring to the dimness of us, be a crimson-cresseted east.
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Your personal boundaries protect the inner core of your identity and your right to choices.
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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 ear, it strikes like lightning to hear him sing.
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As kingfishers catch fire, dragonflies draw flame
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Give beauty back, beauty, beauty, beauty, back to God, beauty's self and beauty's giver.
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All things therefore are charged with love, are charged with God and if we knew how to touch them give off sparks and take fire, yield drops and flow, ring and tell of him.
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What I do is me, for that I came.
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The world is charged with the grandeur of God.
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I do not write for the public. You are my public and I hope to convert you.
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Searching nature I taste self but at one tankard, that of my own being.
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For I think it is the case with genius that it is not when quiescent so very much above mediocrity as the difference between the two might lead us to think, but that it has the power and privilege of rising from that level to a height utterly far from mediocrity: in other words that its greatness is that it can be so great.
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And for all this, nature is never spent There lives the dearest freshness deep down things And though the last lights off the black West went Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs— Because the Holy Ghost over the bent World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.
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NOT, I’ll not, carrion comfort, Despair, not feast on thee Not untwist—slack they may be—these last strands of man In me ór, most weary, cry I can no more. I can Can something, hope, wish day come, not choose not to be.
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I awoke in the Midsummer not-to-call night, in the white and the walk of the morning
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I do not think I have ever seen anything more beautiful than the bluebell I have been looking at. I know the beauty of our Lord by it.
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