Quote

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.

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
Eyes
Faces
Limbs
Eye
Features
Christ
Plays
Father
Lovely
Play
Ten
Men
Places
Thousand

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Crystal sincerity hath found no shelter but in a fool's cap.
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I thought how sadly beauty of inscape was unknown and buried away from simple people and yet how near at hand it was if they had eyes to see it and it could be called out everywhere again.
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Nothing is so beautiful as spring- When weeds in wheels, shoot long and lovely and lush.
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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.
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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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Birds buildbut not I build no, but strain, Time's eunuch, and not breed one work that wakes. Mine,O thou lord of life, send my roots rain.
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For myself I make no secret, I look forward with eager desire to seeing the matchless beauty of Christ's body in the heavenly light.
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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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My own heart let me more have pity on let Me live to my sad self hereafter kind, Charitable not live this tormented mind With this tormented mind tormenting yet.
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God?is so great that all things give him glory if you mean they should.
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Horrible to say, in a manner I am a Communist.
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Searching nature I taste self but at one tankard, that of my own being.
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The effect of studying masterpieces is to make me admire and do otherwise.
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Do you know, a horrible thing has happened to me. I have begun to doubt Tennyson.
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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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The world is charged with the grandeur of God.
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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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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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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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