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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.
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
Hope
Weary
Wish
Thee
May
Despair
Come
Cry
Something
Comfort
Carrion
Men
Choose
Slack
Lasts
Strands
Last
Feast
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The effect of studying masterpieces is to make me admire and do otherwise.
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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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Do you know, a horrible thing has happened to me. I have begun to doubt Tennyson.
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Horrible to say, in a manner I am a Communist.
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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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That piecemeal peace is poor peace. What pure peace allows Alarms of wars, the daunting wars, the death of it?
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ELECTED Silence, sing to me And beat upon my whorlèd ear, Pipe me to pastures still and be The music that I care to hear.
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Summer ends now now, barbarous in beauty, the Stooks arise Around up above, what wind-walks! what lovely behavior Of silk-sack clouds! Has wilder, willful-waiver Meal-drift molded ever and melted across skies?
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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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For Christ plays in ten thousand places,/ Lovely in limbs, and lovely in eyes not his/ To the Father through the features of men’s faces.
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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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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 Crushed.
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God?is so great that all things give him glory if you mean they should.
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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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What is all this juice and all this joy?
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Our Lord Jesus Christ , my brethren, is our hero, a hero all the world wants.
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I hold with the old-fashioned criticism that Browning is not really a poet, that he has all the gifts but the one needful and the pearls without the string rather one should say raw nuggets and rough diamonds.
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When I compare myself, my being-myself, with anything else whatever, all things alike, all in the same degree, rebuff me with blank unlikeness.
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I wake and feel the fell of dark, not day. What hours, O what black hours we have spent This night!
Gerard Manley Hopkins
What I do is me, for that I came.
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