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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
Spent
Dark
Hours
Black
Night
Feel
Insomnia
Feels
Fell
Wake

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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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Beauty is a relation, and the apprehension of it a comparison.
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Do you know, a horrible thing has happened to me. I have begun to doubt Tennyson.
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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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The world is charged with the grandeur of God. It will flame out, like shining from shook foil It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil Crushed.
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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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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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The effect of studying masterpieces is to make me admire and do otherwise.
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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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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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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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Horrible to say, in a manner I am a Communist.
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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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Nothing is so beautiful as spring- When weeds in wheels, shoot long and lovely and lush.
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Give beauty back, beauty, beauty, beauty, back to God, beauty's self and beauty's giver.
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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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God?is so great that all things give him glory if you mean they should.
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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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Let Him easter in us, be a dayspring to the dimness of us, be a crimson-cresseted east.
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Our Lord Jesus Christ , my brethren, is our hero, a hero all the world wants.
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