Quotes by Gerard Manley Hopkins

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Gerard Manley Hopkins (July 28, 1844 - June 8, 1889) was a British Victorian poet and Jesuit priest. more

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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.

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.
Towery city and branching between towers; Cuckoo-echoing, bell-swarmed, lark-charmed, rook-racked, river-rounded.
Up above, what wind walks! What lovely behavior of silk-sack clouds has wilder, wilful, wavier, meal-drift molded over and melted across skies!
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.
All things counter, original, spare, strange; Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?) With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim; He fathers-forth whose beauty is past changed: Praise Him.
The world is charged with the grandeur of God. It will flame out like shook foil. It gathers to greatness like ooze of oil. Crushed.
And for all this, nature is never spent. There lives the dearest freshness deep down things. And though the last nights off the black West went/Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward , springs--/Because the Holy Ghost over the bent World broods with warm breast and Ah! bright wings.
Glory be to God for dappled things. For skies of couple-color as a brindles cow. For roso-moles that all in stipple upon trout that swim. Fresh fire-coal chestnut falls; finches' wings. Landscape plotted and pieced--fold fallow and plough; And all trades, their gear and tackle and trim.
Margaret are you grieving Over Goldengrove unleaving? Leaves, like the things of man, you With your fresh thoughts care for, can you?
The boughs, the boughs are bare enough But earth has never felt the snow. Frost-furred our ivies are and rough With bills of rime the brambles shew The hoarse leaves crawl on hissing ground Because the sighing wind is low.