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I do not write for the public. You are my public and I hope to convert you.

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
Poetry
Public
Literature
Hope
Write
Writing
Convert

More quotes by Gerard Manley Hopkins

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Your personal boundaries protect the inner core of your identity and your right to choices.
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ELECTED Silence, sing to me And beat upon my whorlèd ear, Pipe me to pastures still and be The music that I care to hear.
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Give beauty back, beauty, beauty, beauty, back to God, beauty's self and beauty's giver.
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The world is charged with the grandeur of God.
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Horrible to say, in a manner I am a Communist.
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Natural heart's ivy, Patience masks Our ruins of wrecked past purpose.
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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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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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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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What I do is me, for that I came.
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Crystal sincerity hath found no shelter but in a fool's cap.
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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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I awoke in the Midsummer not-to-call night, in the white and the walk of the morning
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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 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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Searching nature I taste self but at one tankard, that of my own being.
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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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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.
Gerard Manley Hopkins