Sir Geoffrey William Hill is an English poet, professor emeritus of English literature and religion, and former co-director of the Editorial Institute, at Boston University. Hill has been considered to be among the most distinguished poets of his generation. In June 2010 he was elected Professor of Poetry in the University of Oxford.
Geoffrey Hill was born in Bromsgrove, Worcestershire, England, in 1932. When he was six, his family moved to nearby Fairfield in Worcestershire, where he attended the local primary school, then the grammar school in Bromsgrove. "As an only child, he developed the habit of going for long walks alone, as an adolescent ... more »
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Geoffrey Hill Poems
In Memory of Jane Fraser
When snow like sheep lay in the fold And wind went begging at each door, And the far hills were blue with cold, And a cloud shroud lay on the moor,
born 19.6.32 - deported 24.9.42 Undesirable you may have been, untouchable you were not. Not forgotten
Requiem for the Plantagenet Kings
For whom the possessed sea littered, on both shores, Ruinous arms; being fired, and for good, To sound the constitution of just wards, Men, in their eloquent fashion, understood.
In Piam Memoriam
Created purely from glass the saint stands, Exposing his gifted quite empty hands Like a conjurer about to begin, A righteous man begging of righteous men.
Processionals in the exemplary cave, Benediction of shadows. Pomfret. London. The voice fragrant with mannered humility, With an equable contempt for this world,
The Triumph of Love
Sun-blazed, over Romsley, a livid rain-scarp.
Requite this angel whose flushed and thirsting face stoops to the sacrifice out of which it arose.
King of the perennial holly-groves, the riven sandstone: overlord of the M5: architect of the historic rampart and ditch, the citadel at Tamworth, the summer hermitage in Holy Cross: guardian of the Welsh Bridge and the Iron Bridge: contractor to the desirable new estates: saltmaster: moneychanger:
On Reading Crowds and Power
Cloven, we are incorporate, our wounds simple but mysterious. We have some wherewithal to bide our time on earth. Endurance is fantastic; ambulances
The strident high civic trumpeting of misrule. It is what we stand for.
An Apology for the Revival of Christian ...
‘Your situation’, said Coningsby, looking up the green and silent valley, ‘is absolutely poetic.’ ‘I try sometimes to fancy’, said Mr Millbank, with a rather fierce smile, ‘that I am in the New World.’
Picture of a Nativity
Sea-preserved, heaped with sea-spoils, Ribs, keels, coral sores, Detached faces, ephemeral oils, Discharged on the world’s outer shores,
Ovid in the Third Reich
I love my work and my children. God Is distant, difficult. Things happen. Too near the ancient troughs of blood Innocence is no earthly weapon.
On Seeing the Wind at Hope Mansell
Whether or not shadows are of the substance such is the expectation I can wait to surprise my vision as a wind enters the valley: sudden and silent
Comments about Geoffrey Hill
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
In Memory of Jane Fraser
When snow like sheep lay in the fold
And wind went begging at each door,
And the far hills were blue with cold,
And a cloud shroud lay on the moor,
She kept the siege. And every day
We watched her brooding over death
Like a strong bird above its prey.
The room filled with the kettle's breath.
Damp curtains glued against the pane
Sealed time away. Her body froze
As if to freeze us all, and chain
Creation to a stunned repose.
She died before the world could stir.
In March the ice unloosed the brook
And water ruffled the sun's ...