The Gospel in Gerard Manley Hopkins. Gerard Manley Hopkins

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СКАЧАТЬ in cruel bands, bruised sore,

      Scourged upon the threshing-floor;

      Where the upper mill-stone roof’d His Head,

      At morn we found the Heavenly Bread,

      And on a thousand Altars laid,

      Christ our Sacrifice is made.

      Those whose dry plot for moisture gapes,

      We shout with them that tread the grapes:

      For us the Vine was fenced with thorn,

      Five ways the precious branches torn;

      Terrible fruit was on the tree

      In the Acre of Gethsemane;

      For us by Calvary’s distress

      The wine was rackèd from the press;

      Now in our Altar vessels stored

      Is the sweet Vintage of our Lord.

      In Joseph’s garden they threw by

      The riv’n Vine, leafless, lifeless, dry:

      On Easter morn the Tree was forth,

      In forty days reach’d Heaven from earth,

      Soon the whole world is overspread;

      Ye weary come into the shade.

      The field where He has planted us

      Shall shake his boughs as Libanus,

      When He hath sheaved us in His sheaf,

      When He has made us bear His leaf.

      We scarcely call that Banquet food,

      But even our Saviour’s and our blood,

      We are so grafted on His Wood.

      Myself unholy, from myself unholy

      Myself unholy, from myself unholy

      To the sweet living of my friends I look –

      Eye-greeting doves bright-counter to the rook,

      Fresh brooks to salt sand-teasing waters shoaly:

      And they are purer, but alas not solely

      The unquestion’d readings of a blotless book.

      And so my trust, confused, struck, and shook

      Yields to the sultry siege of melancholy.

      He has a sin of mine, he its near brother,

      Knowing them well I can but see the fall.

      This fault in one I found, that in another:

      And so, though each have one while I have all,

      No better serves me now, save best; no other

      Save Christ: to Christ I look, on Christ I call.

      Let Me Be to Thee as the Circling Bird

      Let me be to Thee as the circling bird,

      Or bat with tender and air-crisping wings

      That shapes in half-light his departing rings,

      From both of whom a changeless note is heard.

      I have found my music in a common word,

      Trying each pleasurable throat that sings

      And every praisèd sequence of sweet strings,

      And know infallibly which I preferred.

      The authentic cadence was discovered late

      Which ends those only strains that I approve,

      And other science all gone out of date

      And minor sweetness scarce made mention of:

      I have found the dominant of my range and state –

      Love, O my God, to call thee Love and Love.

      The Habit of Perfection

      Elected Silence, sing to me

      And beat upon my whorlèd ear,

      Pipe me to pastures still and be

      The music that I care to hear.

      Shape nothing, lips; be lovely-dumb:

      It is the shut, the curfew sent

      From there where all surrenders come

      Which only makes you eloquent.

      Be shellèd, eyes, with double dark

      And find the uncreated light:

      This ruck and reel which you remark

      Coils, keeps, and teases simple sight.

      Palate, the hutch of tasty lust,

      Desire not to be rinsed with wine:

      The can must be so sweet, the crust

      So fresh that come in fasts divine!

      Nostrils, your careless breath that spend

      Upon the stir and keep of pride,

      What relish shall the censers send

      Along the sanctuary side!

      O feel-of-primrose hands, O feet

      That want the yield of plushy sward,

      But you shall walk the golden street

      And you unhouse and house the Lord.

      And, Poverty, be thou the bride

      And now the marriage feast begun,

      And lily-coloured clothes provide

      Your spouse not laboured-at nor spun.

      Heaven–Haven

       A nun takes the veil

      I have desired to go

      Where springs not fail,

      To СКАЧАТЬ