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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.

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
Live
Sits
Long
Wet
Would
Ashes
World
Weed
Burn
Bereft
Wilderness
Hopkins
Left
Wildness
Nature
Weeds

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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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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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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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I wake and feel the fell of dark, not day. What hours, O what black hours we have spent This night!
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Searching nature I taste self but at one tankard, that of my own being.
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Give beauty back, beauty, beauty, beauty, back to God, beauty's self and beauty's giver.
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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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Horrible to say, in a manner I am a Communist.
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As kingfishers catch fire, dragonflies draw flame
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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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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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Natural heart's ivy, Patience masks Our ruins of wrecked past purpose.
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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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I do not write for the public. You are my public and I hope to convert you.
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Do you know, a horrible thing has happened to me. I have begun to doubt Tennyson.
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Beauty is a relation, and the apprehension of it a comparison.
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