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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
Hours
Black
Night
Insomnia
Feel
Fell
Feels
Wake
Spent
Dark

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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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Nothing is so beautiful as spring- When weeds in wheels, shoot long and lovely and lush.
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I am all at once what Christ is, ' since he was what I am, and This Jack, joke, poor potsherd, ' patch, matchwood, immortal diamond, Is immortal diamond.
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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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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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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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Your personal boundaries protect the inner core of your identity and your right to choices.
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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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Give beauty back, beauty, beauty, beauty, back to God, beauty's self and beauty's giver.
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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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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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What is all this juice and all this joy?
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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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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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Let Him easter in us, be a dayspring to the dimness of us, be a crimson-cresseted east.
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Beauty is a relation, and the apprehension of it a comparison.
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Life death all does end and each day dies with sleep.
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The world is charged with the grandeur of God.
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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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Religion, you know, enters very deep in reality it is the deepest impression I have in speaking to people, that they are or that they are not of my religion.
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