Gerard Manley Hopkins

Thee, God, I come from, to thee go, All day long I like fountain flow From thy hand out, swayed about Mote-like in thy mighty glow.

What I know of thee I bless, As acknowledging thy stress On my being and as seeing Something of thy holiness.

Once I turned from thee and hid, Bound on what thou hadst forbid; Sow the wind I would; I sinned: I repent of what I did.

Bad I am, but yet thy child. Father, be thou reconciled. Spare thou me, since I see With thy might that thou art mild.

I have life before me still And thy purpose to fulfil; Yea a debt to pay thee yet: Help me, sir, and so I will.

But thou bidst, and just thou art, Me shew mercy from my heart Towards my brother, every other Man my mate and counterpart. . . . . . . . .

How lovely the elder brother's Life all laced in the other's, Lóve-laced!—what once I well Witnessed; so fortune fell. When Shrovetide, two years gone, Our boys' plays brought on Part was picked for John, Young Jóhn: then fear, then joy Ran revel in the elder boy. Their night was come now; all Our company thronged the hall; Henry, by the wall, Beckoned me beside him: I came where called, and eyed him By meanwhiles; making my play Turn most on tender byplay. For, wrung all on love's rack, My lad, and lost in Jack, Smiled, blushed, and bit his lip; Or drove, with a diver's dip, Clutched hands down through clasped knees— Truth's tokens tricks like these, Old telltales, with what stress He hung on the imp's success. Now the other was bráss-bóld: Hé had no work to hold His heart up at the strain; Nay, roguish ran the vein. Two tedious acts were past; Jack's call and cue at last; When Henry, heart-forsook, Dropped eyes and dared not look. Eh, how áll rúng! Young dog, he did give tongue! But Harry—in his hands he has flung His tear-tricked cheeks of flame For fond love and for shame. Ah Nature, framed in fault, There 's comfort then, there 's salt; Nature, bad, base, and blind, Dearly thou canst be kind; There dearly thén, deárly, I'll cry thou canst be kind.

I awoke in the Midsummer not to call night, in the white and the walk of the morning: The moon, dwindled and thinned to the fringe of a finger-nail held to the candle, Or paring of paradisaical fruit, lovely in waning but lustreless, Stepped from the stool, drew back from the barrow, of dark Maenefa the mountain;

A cusp still clasped him, a fluke yet fanged him, entangled him, not quite utterly. This was the prized, the desirable sight, unsought, presented so easily, Parted me leaf and leaf, divided me, eyelid and eyelid of slumber.

To what serves mortal beauty '—dangerous; does set danc- ing blood—the O-seal-that-so ' feature, flung prouder form Than Purcell tune lets tread to? ' See: it does this: keeps warm Men's wits to the things that are; ' what good means—where a glance Master more may than gaze, ' gaze out of countenance. Those lovely lads once, wet-fresh ' windfalls of war's storm, How then should Gregory, a father, ' have gleanèd else from swarm- ed Rome? But God to a nation ' dealt that day's dear chance. To man, that needs would worship ' block or barren stone, Our law says: Love what are ' love's worthiest, were all known; World's loveliest—men's selves. Self ' flashes off frame and face. What do then? how meet beauty? ' Merely meet it; own, Home at heart, heaven's sweet gift; ' then leave, let that alone. Yea, wish that though, wish all, ' God's better beauty, grace.

I have desired to go Where springs not fail, To fields where flies no sharp and sided hail And a few lilies blow.

And I have asked to be Where no storms come,

Where the green swell is in the havens dumb, And out of the swing of the sea.

Margaret, are you grieving Over Goldengrove unleaving? Leaves, like the things of man, you With your fresh thoughts care for, can you? Ah! as the heart grows older It will come to such sights colder By and by, nor spare a sigh Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie; And yet you will weep and know why. Now no matter, child, the name: Sorrow's springs are the same. Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed What heart heard of, ghost guessed: It is the blight man was born for, It is Margaret you mourn for.

'The child is father to the man.' How can he be? The words are wild. Suck any sense from that who can: 'The child is father to the man.' No; what the poet did write ran, 'The man is father to the child.' 'The child is father to the man!' How can he be? The words are wild.

What being in rank-old nature should earlier have that breath been That hйre pйrsonal tells off these heart-song powerful peals?— A bush-browed, beetle-brуwed bнllow is it? With a soъth-wйsterly wнnd blъstering, with a tide rolls reels Of crumbling, fore-foundering, thundering all-surfy seas in; seen Ъnderneath, their glassy barrel, of a fairy green. . . . . . . . . Or a jaunting vaunting vaulting assaulting trumpet telling