Poems of Gerard Manley Hopkins | Page 6

go and bleed at a bitterer vein for the

Comfortless unconfessed of them--
No not uncomforted:
lovely-felicitous Providence
Finger of a tender of, O of a feathery
delicacy, the breast of the Maiden could obey so, be a bell to, ring of it,
and
Startle the poor sheep back! is the shipwrack then a harvest; does
tempest carry the grain for thee?
32
I admire thce, master of the tides,
Of the Yore-flood, of the year's fall;

The recurb and the recovery of the gulfs sides,
The girth of it and the wharf of it and the wall; Stanching, quenching
ocean of a motionable mind;
Ground of being, and granite of it: past
all
Grasp God, throned behind
Death with a sovereignty that heeds
but hides, bodes but abides;
33
With a mercy that outrides
The all of water, an ark
For the listener;
for the lingerer with a love glides
Lower than death and the dark;
A vein for the visiting of the
past-prayer, pent in prison, The-last-breath penitent spirits--the
uttermost mark
Our passion-plungèd giant risen,
The Christ of the
Father compassionate, fetched in the storm of
his strides.
34
Now burn, new born to the world,
Doubled-naturèd name,
The
heaven-flung, heart-fleshed, maiden-furled
Miracle-in-Mary-of-flame,
Mid-numbered He in three of the
thunder-throne!
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 shire, 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,
Hoar messmate, hobs and nobs 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 shine 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
God's Grandeur_
THE world is charged with the grandeur of God.
It will flame out, like shining 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!