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As kingfishers catch fire, dragonflies draw flame

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
Draws
Color
Fire
Nature
Dragonflies
Flame
Flames
Catch
Draw

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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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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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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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Life death all does end and each day dies with sleep.
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What is all this juice and all this joy?
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Summer ends now now, barbarous in beauty, the Stooks arise Around up above, what wind-walks! what lovely behavior Of silk-sack clouds! Has wilder, willful-waiver Meal-drift molded ever and melted across skies?
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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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The effect of studying masterpieces is to make me admire and do otherwise.
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Horrible to say, in a manner I am a Communist.
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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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I awoke in the Midsummer not-to-call night, in the white and the walk of the morning
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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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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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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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What I do is me, for that I came.
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Natural heart's ivy, Patience masks Our ruins of wrecked past purpose.
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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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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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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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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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