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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.
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
Mine
Strain
Build
Birds
Lord
Send
Work
Thou
Time
Roots
Eunuch
Life
Rain
Eunuchs
Mines
Wakes
Bird
Breed
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Your personal boundaries protect the inner core of your identity and your right to choices.
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The effect of studying masterpieces is to make me admire and do otherwise.
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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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Do you know, a horrible thing has happened to me. I have begun to doubt Tennyson.
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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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Our Lord Jesus Christ , my brethren, is our hero, a hero all the world wants.
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Give beauty back, beauty, beauty, beauty, back to God, beauty's self and beauty's giver.
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What I do is me, for that I came.
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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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Thou art indeed just, Lord, if I contend With thee but, sir, so what I plead is just. Why do sinners' ways prosper? and why must Disappointment all I endeavour end?
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The world is charged with the grandeur of God.
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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 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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Searching nature I taste self but at one tankard, that of my own being.
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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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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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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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Every true poet, I thought, must be original and originality a condition of poetic genius so that each poet is like a species in nature (not an individuum genericum or specificum ) and can never recur. That nothing shd. be old or borrowed however cannot be.
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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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