Gerard Manley Hopkins

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

Gerard Manley Hopkins Poems

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

Tom's Garland

upon the Unemployed

Tom—garlanded with squat and surly steel
Tom; then Tom’s fallowbootfellow piles pick
By him and rips out rockfire homeforth—sturdy Dick;
Tom Heart-at-ease, Tom Navvy: he is all for his meal
Sure, ’s bed now. Low be it: lustily he his low lot (feel
That ne’er need hunger, Tom; Tom seldom sick,

[Report Error]