Gerard Manley Hopkins Quotes

How to keep—is there any any, is there none such, nowhere known some, bow or brooch or braid or brace, lace, latch or catch or key to keep
Back beauty, keep it, beauty, beauty, beauty, … from vanishing away?

When will you ever, Peace, wild wooddove, shy wings shut,
Your round me roaming end, and under be my boughs?
When, when, Peace, will you, Peace? I’ll not play hypocrite
To own my heart: I yield you do come sometimes; but
That piecemeal peace is poor peace. What pure peace allows
Alarms of wars, the daunting wars, the death of it?

O surely, reaving Peace, my Lord should leave in lieu
Some good! And so he does leave Patience exquisite,
That plumes to Peace thereafter. And when Peace here does house
He comes with work to do, he does not come to coo,
He comes to brood and sit.

My aspens dear, whose airy cages quelled,
Quelled or quenched in leaves the leaping sun,
All felled, felled, are all felled;
Of a fresh and following folded rank
Not spared, not one
That dandled a sandalled
Shadow that swam or sank
On meadow and river and wind-wandering weed-winding bank.

I wake and feel the fell of dark, not day.
What hours, O what black hoürs we have spent
This night!

Beauty … is a relation, and the apprehension of it a comparison.

Lovely the woods, waters, meadows, combes, vales,
All the air things wear that build this world of Wales.

Why wouldst thou rude on me they wring-world right foot rock?

Do you know, a horrible thing has happened to me. I have begun to doubt Tennyson.

Generaciones han pisado, pisado, pisado;
y todo se ha chamuscado con la industria;
empañado, manchado, con el trabajo;
y lleva la suciedad del hombre, el olor del hombre:
la tierra está desnuda, y el pie, calzado, ya no siente.
Y con todo esto, la naturaleza nunca se agota,
en el fondo de las cosas vive la muy amada lozanía;
y aunque se perdieron las luces por el negro Oeste,
ah, la mañana nace en el castaño umbral del Este.

I am gall, I am heartburn. God's most deep decree
Bitter would have me taste: my taste was me;
Bones built in me, flesh filled, blood brimmed the curse.
Selfyeast of spirit a dull dough sours. I see
The lost are like this, and their scourge to be
As I am mine, their sweating selves; but worse.

No, I'll not, carrion comfort, Despair, not feast on thee

Let Him easter in us, be a dayspring to the dimness of us, be a crimson-cresseted east.

For myself I make no secret, I look forward with eager desire to seeing the matchless beauty of Christ’s body in the heavenly light.

I am surprised you should say fancy and aesthetic tastes have led me to my present state of mind: these would be better satisfied in the Church of England, for bad taste is always meeting one in the accessories of Catholicism.

I thought how sadly beauty of inscape was unknown and buried away from simple people and yet how near at hand it was if they had eyes to see it and it could be called out everywhere again.