Poems of Gerard Manley Hopkins | Page 9

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.
Ten or twelve, only ten or twelve
Strokes of havoc únselve
The sweet especial scene,?Rural scene, a rural scene,?Sweet especial rural scene.
_20?Duns Scotus's Oxford_
TOWERY city and branchy between towers;?Cuckoo-echoing, bell-swarmèd, lark-charmèd, rookracked,
river-rounded;?The dapple-eared lily below thee; that country and
town did?Once encounter in, here coped and poisèd powers;
Thou hast a base and brickish skirt there, sours?That neighbour-nature thy grey beauty is grounded?Best in; graceless growth, thou hast confounded?Rural rural keeping--folk, flocks, and flowers.
Yet ah! this air I gather and I release?He lived on; these weeds and waters, these walls are what?He haunted who of all men most sways my spirits to peace;
Of realty the rarest-veinèd unraveller; a not?Rivalled insight, be rival Italy or Greece;?Who fired France for Mary without spot.
_21?Henry Purcell_
_The poet wishes well to the divine genius of Purcell?and praises him that, whereas other musicians have given?utterance to the moods of man's mind, he has, beyond?that, uttered in notes the very make and species of man as?created both in him and in all men generally._
HAVE fair fallen, O fair, fair have fallen, so dear?To me, so arch-especial a spirit as heaves in Henry Purcell, An age is now since passed, since parted; with the reversal Of the outward sentence low lays him, listed to a heresy,
here.
Not mood in him nor meaning, proud fire or sacred fear,?Or love or pity or all that sweet notes not his might nursle: It is the forgèd feature finds me; it is the rehearsal?Of own, of abrupt self there so thrusts on, so throngs
the ear.
Let him Oh! with his air of angels then lift me, lay me!
only I'll?Have an eye to the sakes of him, quaint moonmarks, to
his pelted plumage under?Wings: so some great stormfowl, whenever he has walked
his while
The thunder-purple seabeach plumè purple-of-thunder,?If a wuthering of his palmy snow-pinions scatter a
colossal smile?Off him, but meaning motion fans fresh our wits with
wonder.
_22?Peace_
WHEN will you ever, Peace, wild wooddove, shy wings shut,?Your round me roaming end, and under be my boughs??When, when, Peacè, will you, Peace? I'll not play
hypocrite?To own my heart: I yield you do come sometimes; but?That piecemeal peace is poor peace. What pure peace
allows?Alarms of wars, the daunting wars, the death of it?
O surely, reaving Peace, my Lord should leave in lieu?Some good! And so he does leave Patience exquisite,?That plumes to Peace thereafter. And when Peace here
does house?He comes with work to do, he does not come to coo,?He comes to brood and sit.
_23?The Bugler's First Communion
A BUGLER boy from barrack (it is over the hill?There)--boy bugler, born, he tells me, of Irish
Mother to an English sire (he?Shares their best gifts surely, fall how things will),
This very very day came down to us after a boon he on?My late being there begged of me, overflowing
Boon in my bestowing,?Came, I say, this day to it--to a First Communion.
Here he knelt then ín regimental red.?Forth Christ from cupboard fetched, how fain I of feet
To his youngster take his treat!?Low-latched in leaf-light housel his too huge godhead.
There! and your sweetest sendings, ah divine,?By it, heavens, befall him! as a heart Christ's darling,
dauntless;
Tongue true, vaunt- and tauntless;?Breathing bloom of a chastity in mansex fine.
Frowning and forefending angel-warder?Squander the hell-rook ranks sally to molest him;
March, kind comrade, abreast him;?Dress his days to a dexterous and starlight order.
How it dóes my heart good, visiting at that bleak hill,?When limber liquid youth, that to all I teach
Yields tender as a pushed peach,?Hies headstrong to its wellbeing of a self-wise self-will!
Then though I should tread tufts of consolation?Dáys áfter, só I in a sort deserve to
And do serve God to serve to?Just such slips of soldiery Christ's royal ration.
Nothing élse is like it, no, not all so strains?Us: fresh youth fretted in a bloomfall all portending
That sweet's sweeter ending;?Realm both Christ is heir to and thére réigns.
O now well work that sealing sacred ointment!?O for now charms, arms, what bans off bad
And locks love ever in a lad!?Let mé though see no more of him, and not disappointment
Those sweet hopes quell whose least me quickenings lift.?In scarlet or somewhere of some day seeing
That brow and bead of being,?An our day's God's own Galahad. Though this child's
drift
Seems by a divíne doom chánnelled, nor do I cry?Disaster there; but may he not rankle and roam
In backwheels though bound home?--?That left to the Lord of the Eucharist, I here lie by;
Recorded only, I have put my lips on pleas?Would brandle adamantine heaven with ride and jar, did
Prayer go disregarded:?Forward-like, but however, and like favourable heaven
heard these.
_24?Morning Midday and Evening Sacrifice_
THE dappled die-away?Cheek and wimpled lip,?The gold-wisp, the airy-grey?Eye, all in fellowship--?This, all this beauty blooming,?This, all this freshness fuming,?Give God while worth consuming.
Both thought and