Quote

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

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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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Our Lord Jesus Christ , my brethren, is our hero, a hero all the world wants.
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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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Let Him easter in us, be a dayspring to the dimness of us, be a crimson-cresseted east.
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For I think it is the case with genius that it is not when quiescent so very much above mediocrity as the difference between the two might lead us to think, but that it has the power and privilege of rising from that level to a height utterly far from mediocrity: in other words that its greatness is that it can be so great.
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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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The effect of studying masterpieces is to make me admire and do otherwise.
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As kingfishers catch fire, dragonflies draw flame
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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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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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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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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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I awoke in the Midsummer not-to-call night, in the white and the walk of the morning
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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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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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Do you know, a horrible thing has happened to me. I have begun to doubt Tennyson.
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