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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
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Gerard Manley Hopkins
Age: 45 †
Born: 1844
Born: June 28
Died: 1889
Died: July 8
Poet
Writer
London
England
Hopkins
Black
Night
Feel
Insomnia
Feels
Fell
Wake
Spent
Dark
Hours
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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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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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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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To lift up the hands in prayer gives God glory, but a man with a dungfork in his hand, a woman with a slop pail, give Him glory, too. God is so great that all things give Him glory if you mean that they should.
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As kingfishers catch fire, dragonflies draw flame
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Your personal boundaries protect the inner core of your identity and your right to choices.
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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.
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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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Searching nature I taste self but at one tankard, that of my own being.
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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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Crystal sincerity hath found no shelter but in a fool's cap.
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Our Lord Jesus Christ , my brethren, is our hero, a hero all the world wants.
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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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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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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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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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