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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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Horrible to say, in a manner I am a Communist.
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Our Lord Jesus Christ , my brethren, is our hero, a hero all the world wants.
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Nothing is so beautiful as spring- When weeds in wheels, shoot long and lovely and lush.
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Do you know, a horrible thing has happened to me. I have begun to doubt Tennyson.
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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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When I compare myself, my being-myself, with anything else whatever, all things alike, all in the same degree, rebuff me with blank unlikeness.
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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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Life death all does end and each day dies with sleep.
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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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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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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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That piecemeal peace is poor peace. What pure peace allows Alarms of wars, the daunting wars, the death of it?
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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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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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Crystal sincerity hath found no shelter but in a fool's cap.
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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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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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