Gerard Manley Hopkins

I bear a basket lined with grass;
I am so light,
I am so fair,
That men must wonder as I pass And at the basket that I bear,

Hard as hurdle arms, with a broth of goldish
Breathed round; the rack of ribs; the scooped flank;
Rope-over thigh; knee-nave; and barrelled shank— Head and foot, shoulder and shank— By a grey eye’s heed steered well, one crew, fall to;

Denis, whose motionable, alert, most vaulting wit Caps occasion with an intellectual fit
Yet Arthur is a Bowman: his three-heeled timber ’ll hit The bald and bóld blínking gold when áll ’s dóne Right rooting in the bare butt’s wincing navel i...

Félix Rándal the fárrier,
O is he déad then
my dúty all énded,
Who have watched his mould of man, bigboned and

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...

Beyond Mágdalen and by the Bridge, on a place called there the Plain,
In Summer, in a burst of summertime Following falls and falls of rain,
When the air was sweet-and-sour of the flown fineflower of Those goldnails and their gaylinks th...

HE
LD is charged with the grandeur of God
It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;
It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of

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,

Towery city and branchy between towers;
Cuckoo-echoing, bell-swarmèd, lark charmèd, rook racked, river-rounded;
The dapple-eared lily below thee; that country and town
Once encounter in, here coped and poisèd powers;

(Felled 1879)My aspens dear, whose airy cages quelled,
Quelled or quenched in leaves the leaping sun,
All felled, felled, are all felled;
Of a fresh and following folded

Not,
I'll not, carrion comfort,
Despair, not feast on thee;
Not untwist — slack they may be — these last strands of

Hark, hearer, hear what I do; lend a thought now, make believe We are leafwhelmed somewhere with the hood Of some branchy bunchy bushybowered wood,
Southern dene or Lancashire clough or Devon cleave,
That leans along the loins of hills, ...