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To R. B.
THE fine delight that fathers thought; the strongSpur, live and lancing like the blowpipe flame,
Breathes once and, quenched faster than it came,
Leaves yet the mind a mother of immortal song.
Nine months she then, nay years, nine years she long
Within her wears, bears, cares and moulds the same:
The widow of an insight lost she lives, with aim
Now known and hand at work now never wrong.
Sweet fire the sire of muse, my soul needs this;
I want the one rapture of an inspiration.
O then if in my lagging lines you miss
The roll, the rise, the carol, the creation,
My winter world, that scarcely breathes that bliss
Now, yields you, with some sighs, our explanation.
(The end)
Gerard Manley Hopkins's poem: To R. B.
NEXT BOOKS
THE best ideal is the true And other truth is none.All glory be ascribed to The holy Three in One.(The end)Gerard Manley Hopkins's poem: Summa
Summa
THE best ideal is the true And other truth is none.All glory be ascribed to The holy Three in One.(The end)Gerard Manley Hopkins's poem: Summa
PREVIOUS BOOKS
Justus quidem tu es, Domine, si disputem tecum: verumtamen justa loquar ad te: Quare via impiorum prosperatur? &c.THOU art indeed just, Lord, if I contendWith thee; but, sir, so what I plead is just.Why do sinners' ways prosper? and why mustDisappointment all I endeavour end? Wert thou my enemy, O thou my friend,How wouldst thou worse, I wonder, than thou dostDefeat, thwart me? Oh, the sots and thralls of lustDo in spare hours more thrive than I that spend,Sir, life upon thy cause. See, banks and brakesNow, leaved how thick! laced they are againWith fretty chervil, look, and fresh
Thou Art Indeed Just, Lord, If I Contend
Justus quidem tu es, Domine, si disputem tecum: verumtamen justa loquar ad te: Quare via impiorum prosperatur? &c.THOU art indeed just, Lord, if I contendWith thee; but, sir, so what I plead is just.Why do sinners' ways prosper? and why mustDisappointment all I endeavour end? Wert thou my enemy, O thou my friend,How wouldst thou worse, I wonder, than thou dostDefeat, thwart me? Oh, the sots and thralls of lustDo in spare hours more thrive than I that spend,Sir, life upon thy cause. See, banks and brakesNow, leaved how thick! laced they are againWith fretty chervil, look, and fresh
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