Gerard Manley Hopkins

Glory be to God for dappled things –
For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;
For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;
Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches’ wings;

No worst, there is none
Pitched past pitch of grief,
More pangs will, schooled at forepangs, wilder wring
Comforter, where, where is your comforting

I remember a house where all were good To me,
God knows, deserving no such thing: Comforting smell breathed at very entering,
Fetched fresh, as I suppose, off some sweet wood
That cordial air made those kind people a hood All over, ...

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,

As a dare-gale skylark scanted in a dull cage, Man's mounting spirit in his bone-house, mean house, dwells — That bird beyond the remembering h{'i}s free fells;
This in drudgery, day-labouring-out life's age
Though aloft on turf or perch...

I caught this morning morning's minion, king- dom of daylight's dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and
High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling
In his ecstasy
...

Patience, hard thing
the hard thing but to pray,
But bid for,
Patience is

The dappled
Cheek and wimpled lip,
The gold-wisp, the
Eye, all in fellowship—This, all this beauty blooming,

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 s...

This darksome burn, horseback brown,
His rollrock highroad roaring down,
In coop and in comb the fleece of his
Flutes and low to the lake falls home

Elected Silence, sing to
And beat upon my whorlèd ear,
Pipe me to pastures still and
The music that I care to hear

The fine delight that fathers thought; the
Spur, live and lancing like the blowpipe flame,
Breathes once and, quenchèd faster than it came,
Leaves yet the mind a mother of immortal song