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

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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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The effect of studying masterpieces is to make me admire and do otherwise.
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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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Give beauty back, beauty, beauty, beauty, back to God, beauty's self and beauty's giver.
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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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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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Nothing is so beautiful as spring- When weeds in wheels, shoot long and lovely and lush.
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I hold with the old-fashioned criticism that Browning is not really a poet, that he has all the gifts but the one needful and the pearls without the string rather one should say raw nuggets and rough diamonds.
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Do you know, a horrible thing has happened to me. I have begun to doubt Tennyson.
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As kingfishers catch fire, dragonflies draw flame
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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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What I do is me, for that I came.
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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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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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Searching nature I taste self but at one tankard, that of my own being.
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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 do not write for the public. You are my public and I hope to convert you.
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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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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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