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Tom's Garland Post by :Bruce_Springste Category :Poems Author :Gerard Manley Hopkins Date :August 2011 Read :2000

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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,
Seldomer heartsore; that treads through, prickproof, thick
Thousands of thorns, thoughts) swings though. Common-weal
Little I reck ho! lacklevel in, if all had bread:
What! Country is honour enough in all us--lordly head,
With heaven's lights high hung round, or, mother-ground
That mammocks, mighty foot. But no way sped,
Nor mind nor mainstrength; gold go garlanded
With, perilous, O no; nor yet plod safe shod sound;
Undenizened, beyond bound
Of earth's glory, earth's ease, all; no one, nowhere,
In wide the world's weal; rare gold, bold steel, bare
In both; care, but share care--
This, by Despair, bred Hangdog dull; by Rage,
Manwolf, worse; and their packs infest the age.

(The end)
Gerard Manley Hopkins's poem: Tom's Garland

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Harry Ploughman Harry Ploughman

Harry Ploughman
HARD as hurdle arms, with a broth of goldish flueBreathed round; the rack of ribs; the scooped flank; lankRope-over thigh; knee-nave; and barrelled shank-- Head and foot, shoulder and shank--By a grey eye's heed steered well, one crew, fall to;Stand at stress. Each limb's barrowy brawn, his thewThat onewhere curded, onewhere sucked or sank-- Soared or sank--,Though as a beechbole firm, finds his, as at a roll-call, rankAnd features, in flesh, what deed he each must do--

No Worst, There Is None. Pitched Past Pitch Of Grief No Worst, There Is None. Pitched Past Pitch Of Grief

No Worst, There Is None. Pitched Past Pitch Of Grief
No worst, there is none. Pitched past pitch of grief,More pangs will, schooled at forepangs, wilder wring.Comforter is your comforting?Mary, mother of us is your relief?My cries heave, herds-long; huddle in a main, a chiefWoe, world-sorrow; on an age-old anvil wince and sing--Then lull, then leave off. Fury had shrieked 'No ling-ering! Let me be fell: force I must be brief'. O the mind, mind has mountains; cliffs of fallFrightful, sheer, no-man-fathomed. Hold them cheapMay who ne'er hung there. Nor does long our smallDurance deal with that steep or deep. Here! creep,Wretch, under a comfort serves