27 ordspråk av Gerard Manley Hopkins

Gerard Manley Hopkins

Gerard Manley Hopkins föddes den 28 Juli 1844 och dog den 8 Juni 1889
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What would the world be, once bereft of wet and wildness? Let them be left. O let them be left, wildness and wet; Long live the weeds and the wilderness yet.

Look at the stars! look, look up at the skies!/ O look at all the fire-folk sitting in the air! / The bright boroughs, the circle-citadels there!

A few other little things; some in sprung rhythm, with various other experiments.

Glory be to God for dappled things for skies of couple-color as a brinded cow; For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim

Ære

O the mind, mind has mountains; cliffs of fall / Frightful, sheer, no-man-fathomed. Hold them cheap / May who ne'er hung there.

That night, that year / Of now done darkness I wretch lay wrestling with (my God!) my God.

O then if in my lagging lines you miss / The roll, the rise, the carol, the creation.

The fine delight that fathers thought; the strong / 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.

This piece-bright paling shuts the spouse / Christ home, Christ and his mother and all his hallows.

Thou art indeed just, Lord, if I contend / With thee; but, sir, so what I plead is just. / Why do sinners' ways prosper? and why must / Disappointment all I endeavour end?

O if we but knew what we do when we delve or hew -- hack and rack the growing green! Since country is so tender to touch, her being so slender, that like this sleek and seeing ball but a prick will make no eye at all, where we, even where we mean to mend her we end her, when we hew or delve: after-comers cannot guess the beauty been.

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 lightning to hear him sing.

All trádes, their gear and tackle and trim.

And my lament / Is cries countless, cries like dead letters sent / To dearest him that lives alas! away.

I see / The lost are like this, and their scourge to be / As I am mine, their sweating selves; but worse.

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