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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
Feel
Insomnia
Feels
Fell
Wake
Spent
Dark

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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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Beauty is a relation, and the apprehension of it a comparison.
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God?is so great that all things give him glory if you mean they should.
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Give beauty back, beauty, beauty, beauty, back to God, beauty's self and beauty's giver.
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Your personal boundaries protect the inner core of your identity and your right to choices.
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Searching nature I taste self but at one tankard, that of my own being.
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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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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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Natural heart's ivy, Patience masks Our ruins of wrecked past purpose.
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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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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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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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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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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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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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I awoke in the Midsummer not-to-call night, in the white and the walk of the morning
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And the headbonny ash that sits over the burn. What would the world be, once bereft Of wet and of wildness? Let them be left, O Let them be left, wildness and wet: Long live the weeds and the wilderness yet.
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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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