Quotes from Gerard Manley Hopkins

My own heart let me more have pity on; let Me live to my sad self hereafter kind, Charitable; not live this tormented mind With this tormented mind tormenting yet.

Life death all does end and each day dies with sleep.

It is a happy thing that there is no royal road to poetry. The world should know by this time that one cannot reach Parnassus except by flying thither.

It kills me to be time's eunuch and never to beget.

I think that the trivialness of life is, and personally to each one, ought to be seen to be, done away with by the Incarnation.

Do you know, a horrible thing has happened to me. I have begun to doubt Tennyson.

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 wildness yet.

That piecemeal peace is poor peace. What pure peace allows Alarms of wars, the daunting wars, the death of it?

For Christ plays in ten thousand places,/ Lovely in limbs, and lovely in eyes not his/ To the Father through the features of men's faces.

I caught this morning morning's minion, kingdom of daylight's dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawnFalcon, in his ridingOf the rolling level underneath him steady air, and stridingHigh there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wingIn his ecstasy!

Margaret, are you grievingOver Goldengrove unleaving?

I say that we are woundWith mercy round and roundAs if with air.

Summer ends now; now, barbarous in beauty, the stooks ariseAround; up above, what wind-walks! what lovely behaviorOf silk-sack clouds! Has wilder, willful-wavierMeal-drift molded ever and melted across skies?

I am gall, I am heartburn.

Look at the stars! look, look up at the skies!O look at all the fire-folk sitting in the air!

World-mothering air, air wild,Wound with thee, in thee isled,Fold home, fast fold thy child.

No worst, there is none. Pitched past pitch of grief,More pangs will, schooled at forepangs, wilder wring.

It is the blight man was born for,It is Margaret you mourn for.

Not, I'll not, carrion comfort, Despair, not feast on thee;Not untwist—slack they may be—these last strands of manIn me or, most weary, cry I can no more. I can;Can something, hope, wish day come, not choose not to be.

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 wildness yet.

Beauty is a relation, and the apprehension of it a comparison.

Felix Randal the farrier, O he is dead then? My duty all ended,Who have watched his mold of man, big-boned and hardy-handsome,Pining, pining.

How to keep—is there any any, is there none such, nowhere known some, bow or brooch or braid or brace, lace, latch or catch or key to keepBack beauty, keep it, beauty, beauty, beauty… from vanishing away?

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