Poem by Gerard Manley Hopkins

* * *

I wake and feel the fell of dark, not day,
What hours, O what black hours we have spent
This night! what sights you, heart, saw; ways you went!
And more must, in yet longer light's delay.
With witness I speak this. But where I say
Hours I mean years, mean life. And my lament
Is cries countless, cries like dead letters sent
To dearest him that lives alas! away.

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. 

1. For a Picture of St. Dorothea
2. The Bugler's First Communion
3. The Blessed Virgin Compared to the Air We Breathe
4. The Silver Jubilee
5. Morning Midday and Evening Sacrifice

Print

2272 Views

Last Poems

To Russian version