web analytics
Poetry

Sunday Sonnet.

I don’t have a great time for the Victorian Poets, which is a gap I am trying to correct. Kipling is obvious: but there are those such as Hopkins who are equally unfashionable because of his faith.

And could write.

God’s Grandeur

The world is charged with the grandeur of God.
It will flame out, like shining torn shook foil;
It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil
Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod?

Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;
And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;
And wears man’s smudge and shares man’s smell: the soil
Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.

And for all this, nature is never spent;
There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;
And though the last lights off the black West went
Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs–

Because the Holy Ghost over the bent
World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.

Gerard Manley Hopkins

%d bloggers like this: