Poems of Gerard Manley Hopkins Part 2

Not a dooms-day dazzle in his coming nor dark as he came; Kind, but royally reclaiming his own; A released shower, let flash to the s.h.i.+re, not a lightning of fire hard-hurled.

35 Dame, at our door Drowned, and among our shoals, Remember us in the roads, the heaven-haven of the Reward: Our King back, oh, upon English souls!

Let him easter in us, be a dayspring to the dimness of us, be a crimson-cresseted east, More brightening her, rare-dear Britain, as his reign rolls, Pride, rose, prince, hero of us, high-priest, Our hearts' charity's hearth's fire, our thoughts' chivalry's throng's Lord.

_5 Penmaen Pool_

_For the Visitors' Book at the Inn_

WHO long for rest, who look for pleasure Away from counter, court, or school O where live well your lease of leisure But here at, here at Penmaen Pool?

You'll dare the Alp? you'll dart the skiff?-- Each sport has here its tackle and tool: Come, plant the staff by Cadair cliff; Come, swing the sculls on Penmaen Pool.

What's yonder?--Grizzled Dyphwys dim: The triple-hummocked Giant's stool, h.o.a.r messmate, hobs and n.o.bs with him To halve the bowl of Penmaen Pool.

And all the landscape under survey, At tranquil turns, by nature's rule, Rides repeated topsyturvy In frank, in fairy Penmaen Pool.

And Charles's Wain, the wondrous seven, And sheep-flock clouds like worlds of wool.

For all they s.h.i.+ne so, high in heaven, Shew brighter shaken in Penmaen Pool.

The Mawddach, how she trips! though throttled If floodtide teeming thrills her full, And mazy sands all water-wattled Waylay her at ebb, past Penmaen Pool.

But what 's to see in stormy weather, When grey showers gather and gusts are cool?-- Why, raindrop-roundels looped together That lace the face of Penmaen Pool.

Then even in weariest wintry hour Of New Year's month or surly Yule Furred snows, charged tuft above tuft, tower From darksome darksome Penmaen Pool.

And ever, if bound here hardest home, You've parlour-pastime left and (who'll Not honour it?) ale like goldy foam That frocks an oar in Penmaen Pool.

Then come who pine for peace or pleasure Away from counter, court, or school, Spend here your measure of time and treasure And taste the treats of Penmaen Pool.

_6 The Silver Jubilee: To James First Bishop of Shrewsbury on the 25th Year of his Episcopate July 28. 1876_

1 THOUGH no high-hung bells or din Of braggart bugles cry it in-- What is sound? Nature's round Makes the Silver Jubilee.

2 Five and twenty years have run Since sacred fountains to the sun Sprang, that but now were shut, Showering Silver Jubilee.

3 Feasts, when we shall fall asleep, Shrewsbury may see others keep; None but you this her true, This her Silver Jubilee.

4 Not today we need lament Your wealth of life is some way spent: Toil has shed round your head Silver but for Jubilee.

5 Then for her whose velvet vales Should have pealed with welcome, Wales, Let the chime of a rhyme Utter Silver Jubilee.

_7 G.o.d's Grandeur_

THE world is charged with the grandeur of G.o.d.

It will flame out, like s.h.i.+ning from shook foil; It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod?

Generations have trod, have trod, have trod; And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil; And wears man's smudge and shares man's smell: the soil Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.

And for all this, nature is never spent; There lives the dearest freshness deep down things; And though the last lights 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 with ah!

bright wings.

_8 The Starlight Night_

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!

Down in dim woods the diamond delves! the elves'-eyes!

The grey lawns cold where gold, where quickgold lies!

Wind-beat whitebeam! airy abeles set on a flare!

Flake-doves sent floating forth at a farmyard scare!-- Ah well! it is all a purchase, all is a prize.

Buy then! bid then!--What?--Prayer, patience, alms, vows.

Look, look: a May-mess, like on orchard boughs!

Look! March-bloom, like on mealed-with-yellow sallows!

These are indeed the barn; withindoors house The shocks. This piece-bright paling shuts the spouse Christ home, Christ and his mother and all his hallows.

_9 Spring_

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 lightnings to hear him sing; The gla.s.sy peartree leaves and blooms, they brush The descending blue; that blue is all in a rush With richness; the racing lambs too have fair their fling.

What is all this juice and all this joy?

A strain of the earth's sweet being in the beginning In Eden garden. Have, get, before it cloy, Before it cloud, Christ, lord, and sour with sinning, Innocent mind and Mayday in girl and boy, Most, O maid's child, thy choice and worthy the winning.

_10 The Lantern out of Doors_

SOMETIMES a lantern moves along the night, That interests our eyes. And who goes there?

I think; where from and bound, I wonder, where, With, all down darkness wide, his wading light?

Men go by me whom either beauty bright In mould or mind or what not else makes rare: They rain against our much-thick and marsh air Rich beams, till death or distance buys them quite.

Death or distance soon consumes them: wind What most I may eye after, be in at the end I cannot, and out of sight is out of mind.

Christ minds: Christ's interest, what to avow or amend There, eyes them, heart wants, care haunts, foot follows kind, Their ransom, their rescue, and first, fast, last friend.

_11 The Sea and the Skylark_

ON ear and ear two noises too old to end Trench--right, the tide that ramps against the sh.o.r.e; With a flood or a fall, low lull-off or all roar, Frequenting there while moon shall wear and wend.

Left hand, off land, I hear the lark ascend, His rash-fresh re-winded new-skeined score In crisps of curl off wild winch whirl, and pour And pelt music, till none's to spill nor spend.

How these two shame this shallow and frail town!

How ring right out our sordid turbid time, Being pure! We, life's pride and cared-for crown,

Have lost that cheer and charm of earth's past prime: Our make and making break, are breaking, down To man's last dust, drain fast towards man's first slime.