File spoon-archives/bhaskar.archive/bhaskar_2003/bhaskar.0312, message 96


Subject: RE: Gerald Manley Hopkins, was Re: BHA: RE: Realism?
Date: Tue, 9 Dec 2003 20:20:27 -0500


Hi Carrol,

Thank you.  I had forgotten how long it has been since I have read Hopkins.  

Dick 

-----Original Message-----
From: Carrol Cox [mailto:cbcox-AT-ilstu.edu] 
Sent: Tuesday, December 09, 2003 12:35 PM
To: bhaskar-AT-lists.village.Virginia.EDU
Subject: Gerald Manley Hopkins, was Re: BHA: RE: Realism?



Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844-89).
  
 		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;
                                                          5
       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;
                                                          10
     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.
      
                   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 plumèd 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.

			12. The Windhover
                               To Christ our Lord
            
          I CAUGHT this morning morning's minion, king-
            dom of daylight's dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding
            Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding
          High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing
          In his ecstasy! then off, off forth on swing,
              As a skate's heel sweeps smooth on a bow-bend: the hurl and gliding
              Rebuffed the big wind. My heart in hiding
          Stirred for a bird,-the achieve of; the mastery of the thing!
           
          Brute beauty and valour and act, oh, air, pride, plume, here
            Buckle! AND the fire that breaks from thee then, a billion
          Times told lovelier, more dangerous, O my chevalier!
           
            No wonder of it: shéer plód makes plough down sillion
          Shine, and blue-bleak embers, ah my dear,
            Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermillion.
           

		      31. Spring and Fall
                            to a young child
                 
            MÁRGARÉT, áre you gríeving
            Over Goldengrove unleaving?
            Leáves, líke the things of man, you
            With your fresh thoughts care for, can you?
            Áh! ás the heart grows older
            It will come to such sights colder
            By and by, nor spare a sigh
            Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie;
            And yet you wíll weep and know why.
            Now no matter, child, the name:
            Sórrow's spríngs áre the same.
            Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed
            What heart heard of, ghost guessed:
            It ís the blight man was born for,
            It is Margaret you mourn for.



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