Gerard Manley Hopkins Short Poems
Famous Short Gerard Manley Hopkins Poems. Short poetry by famous poet Gerard Manley Hopkins. A collection of the all-time best Gerard Manley Hopkins short poems
by
Gerard Manley Hopkins
Repeat that, repeat,
Cuckoo, bird, and open ear wells, heart-springs, delightfully sweet,
With a ballad, with a ballad, a rebound
Off trundled timber and scoops of the hillside ground, hollow hollow hollow ground:
The whole landscape flushes on a sudden at a sound.
by
Gerard Manley Hopkins
God with honour hang your head,
Groom, and grace you, bride, your bed
With lissome scions, sweet scions,
Out of hallowed bodies bred.
Each be other's comfort kind:
Déep, déeper than divined,
Divine charity, dear charity,
Fast you ever, fast bind.
Then let the March tread our ears:
I to him turn with tears
Who to wedlock, his wonder wedlock,
Déals tríumph and immortal years.
by
Gerard Manley Hopkins
Strike, churl; hurl, cheerless wind, then; heltering hail
May’s beauty massacre and wisp?d wild clouds grow
Out on the giant air; tell Summer No,
Bid joy back, have at the harvest, keep Hope pale.
by
Gerard Manley Hopkins
Moonless darkness stands between.
Past, the Past, no more be seen!
But the Bethlehem-star may lead me
To the sight of Him Who freed me
From the self that I have been.
Make me pure, Lord: Thou art holy;
Make me meek, Lord: Thou wert lowly;
Now beginning, and alway:
Now begin, on Christmas day.
by
Gerard Manley Hopkins
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.
by
Gerard Manley Hopkins
To him who ever thought with love of me
Or ever did for my sake some good deed
I will appear, looking such charity
And kind compassion, at his life’s last need
That he will out of hand and heartily
Repent he sinned and all his sins be freed.
by
Gerard Manley Hopkins
The best ideal is the true
And other truth is none.
All glory be ascrib?d to
The holy Three in One.
by
Gerard Manley Hopkins
He play'd his wings as tho' for flight;
They webb'd the sky with glassy light.
His body sway'd upon tiptoes,
Like a wind-perplexed rose;
In eddies of the wind he went
At last up the blue element.
by
Gerard Manley Hopkins
Beyond M?gdalen 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 that hang along a lime;
. . . . . . . .
The motion of that man’s heart is fine
Whom want could not make p?ne, p?ne
That struggling should not sear him, a gift should cheer him
Like that poor pocket of pence, poor pence of mine.
. . . . . . . .
by
Gerard Manley Hopkins
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 b?ld bl?nking gold when ?ll ’s d?ne
Right rooting in the bare butt’s wincing navel in the sight of the sun.
. . . . . . . .
by
Gerard Manley Hopkins
What being in rank-old nature should earlier have that breath been
That h?re p?rsonal tells off these heart-song powerful peals?—
A bush-browed, beetle-br?wed b?llow is it?
With a so?th-w?sterly w?nd bl?stering, with a tide rolls reels
Of crumbling, fore-foundering, thundering all-surfy seas in; seen
?nderneath, their glassy barrel, of a fairy green.
. . . . . . . .
Or a jaunting vaunting vaulting assaulting trumpet telling
by
Gerard Manley Hopkins
To the
happy memory of five Franciscan Nuns
exiles by the Falk Laws
drowned between midnight and morning of
Dec. 7th. 1875
by
Gerard Manley Hopkins
'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.
by
Gerard Manley Hopkins
The sea took pity: it interposed with doom:
‘I have tall daughters dear that heed my hand:
Let Winter wed one, sow them in her womb,
And she shall child them on the New-world strand.’
. . . . . . . .
by
Gerard Manley Hopkins
Mortal my mate, bearing my rock-a-heart
Warm beat with cold beat company, shall I
Earlier or you fail at our force, and lie
The ruins of, rifled, once a world of art?
The telling time our task is; time’s some part,
Not all, but we were framed to fail and die—
One spell and well that one. There, ah thereby
Is comfort’s carol of all or woe’s worst smart.
Field-flown, the departed day no morning brings
Saying ‘This was yours’ with her, but new one, worse,
And then that last and shortest…