Gerard M. Hopkins

"As kingfishers catch fire, dragonflies draw flame; As tumbled over rim in roundy wells Stones ring..."

Nothing is so beautiful as spring— When weeds, in wheels, shoot long and lovely and lush; Thrush’s eggs look little low heavens, and thrush Through the echoing timber does so rinse and wring hopkinspoetry.com/poem/sprin…

Summer ends now; now, barbarous in beauty, the stooks arise Around; up above, what wind-walks! what lovely behaviour Of silk-sack clouds! has wilder, wilful-wavier Meal-drift moulded ever and melted across skies? hopkinspoetry.com/poems/hurr…

The Hopkins lines you might have heard quoted at Sen. John McCain’s funeral on September 1st were these: “For Christ plays in ten thousand places, / Lovely in limbs, and lovely in eyes not his / To the Father through the features of men’s faces.”

Earth throws Winter's robes away, Decks herself for Easter Day.

Most, O maid’s child, thy choice and worthy the winning.

Have, get, before it cloy, Before it cloud, Christ, lord, and sour with sinning, Innocent mind and Mayday in girl and boy,

What is all this juice and all this joy? A strain of the earth's sweet being in the beginning In Eden garden.

With richness; the racing lambs too have fair their fling.

The glassy peartree leaves and blooms, they brush The descending blue; that blue is all in a rush

Through the echoing timber does so rinse and wring The ear, it strikes like lightnings to hear him sing;

Thrush's eggs look little low heavens, and thrush

Nothing is so beautiful as Spring – When weeds, in wheels, shoot long and lovely and lush;

"Take breath and read it with the ears, as I always wish to be read, and my verse becomes all right." –Letter, October 1879

Chríst—for Christ plays in ten thousand places, Lovely in limbs, & lovely in eyes not his To the Father through the features of men's faces.

I say móre: the just man justices; Keeps grace: thát keeps all his goings graces; Acts in God's eye what in God's eye he is —

Deals out that being indoors each one dwells; Selves—goes itself; myself it speaks and spells, Crying Whát I dó is me: for that I came.

Bow swung finds tongue to fling out broad its name; Each mortal thing does one thing and the same:

As tumbled over rim in roundy wells Stones ring; like each tucked string tells, each hung bell's

As kingfishers catch fire, dragonflies draw flame;