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What is all this juice and all this joy?

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
Juice
Joy

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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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As kingfishers catch fire, dragonflies draw flame
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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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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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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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Horrible to say, in a manner I am a Communist.
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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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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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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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I do not write for the public. You are my public and I hope to convert you.
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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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Do you know, a horrible thing has happened to me. I have begun to doubt Tennyson.
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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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What I do is me, for that I came.
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Searching nature I taste self but at one tankard, that of my own being.
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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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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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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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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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Natural heart's ivy, Patience masks Our ruins of wrecked past purpose.
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