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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.

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
People
Beauty
Eyes
Sadly
Simple
Buried
Eye
Unknown
Away
Near
Nature
Everywhere
Hands
Hand
Thought
Called

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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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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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Life death all does end and each day dies with sleep.
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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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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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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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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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Searching nature I taste self but at one tankard, that of my own being.
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What I do is me, for that I came.
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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.
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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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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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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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Do you know, a horrible thing has happened to me. I have begun to doubt Tennyson.
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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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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 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 is all this juice and all this joy?
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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.
Gerard Manley Hopkins