Gerard Manley Hopkins

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

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

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

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
...

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 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...

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

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,

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; Landscape plotted and pieced — fold, fallow, and plough; And ...

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

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

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...

Some candle clear burns somewhere I come by
I muse at how its being puts blissful
With yellowy moisture mild night's blear-all black,
Or to-fro tender trambeams truckle at the eye

Laybrother of the Society of
Honour is flashed off exploit, so we say;
And those strokes once that gashed flesh or galled
Should tongue that time now, trumpet now that field,

Nothing is so beautiful as spring — When weeds, in wheels, shoot long and lovely and lush;
Thrush's eggs look little low heavens, and thrush Through the echoing timber does so rinse and wring The ear, it strikes like lightnings to hear him si...

I wake and feel the fell of dark, not day
What hours,
O what black hours we have
This night