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I awoke in the Midsummer not-to-call night, in the white and the walk of the morning

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
White
Night
Awoke
Midsummer
Walk
Walks
Morning
Call

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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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Horrible to say, in a manner I am a Communist.
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Give beauty back, beauty, beauty, beauty, back to God, beauty's self and beauty's giver.
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Our Lord Jesus Christ , my brethren, is our hero, a hero all the world wants.
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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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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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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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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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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 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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Life death all does end and each day dies with sleep.
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Searching nature I taste self but at one tankard, that of my own being.
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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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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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Do you know, a horrible thing has happened to me. I have begun to doubt Tennyson.
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