Gerard Manley Hopkins

(28 July 1844 – 8 June 1889 / Stratford, Essex)

Gerard Manley Hopkins Poems

1. It Was A Hard Thing To Undo This Knot 6/25/2015
2. A Vision of the Mermaids -new- 11/13/2015
3. Strike, Churl 1/3/2003
4. Tom's Garland 1/3/2003
5. The Silver Jubilee 1/3/2003
6. The May Magnificat 1/3/2003
7. St. Winefred's Well 1/3/2003
8. The Half-Way House 11/25/2003
9. Ribblesdale 1/3/2003
10. The Loss Of The Eurydice 1/3/2003
11. The Handsome Heart 1/3/2003
12. St. Alphonsus Rodriguez 1/3/2003
13. The Bugler's First Communion 1/3/2003
14. The Shepherd’s Brow, Fronting Forked Lightning, Owns 1/3/2003
15. My Own Heart Let Me Have More Have Pity On; Let 1/13/2003
16. Penmaen Pool 1/3/2003
17. The Furl Of Fresh-Leaved Dogrose Down 1/3/2003
18. To Him Who Ever Thought With Love Of Me 1/3/2003
19. Summa 1/3/2003
20. To His Watch 1/3/2003
21. To R.B. 1/3/2003
22. Patience, Hard Thing! The Hard Thing But To Pray 1/13/2003
23. Spelt From Sibyl's Leaves 1/3/2003
24. The Lantern Out Of Doors 1/3/2003
25. In Honour Of St. Alphonsus Rodriguez 1/13/2003
26. On The Portrait Of Two Beautiful Young People 1/3/2003
27. The Soldier 1/3/2003
28. What Being In Rank-Old Nature 1/3/2003
29. The Woodlark 1/3/2003
30. In The Valley Of The Elwy 1/3/2003
31. May Magnificat 1/13/2003
32. The Sea Took Pity 1/3/2003
33. My Own Heart Let Me More Have Pity On 1/3/2003
34. The Times Are Nightfall 1/3/2003
35. Repeat That, Repeat 1/3/2003
36. Moonrise 1/3/2003
37. What Shall I Do For The Land That Bred Me 1/3/2003
38. The Leaden Echo And The Golden Echo 1/3/2003
39. Thee, God, I Come From 1/3/2003
40. To Seem The Stranger Lies My Lot, My Life 1/13/2003
Best Poem of Gerard Manley Hopkins

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 |&| 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

Read the full of God's Grandeur

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.

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