Gerard Manley Hopkins
Gerard Manley Hopkins
Gerard Manley Hopkins
Gerard Manley Hopkins
Gerard Manley Hopkins
Gerard Manley Hopkins
Gerard Manley Hopkins
Gerard Manley Hopkins
Gerard Manley Hopkins
Gerard Manley Hopkins
Gerard Manley Hopkins
Gerard Manley Hopkins
Gerard Manley Hopkins
Gerard Manley Hopkins
Gerard Manley Hopkins
Gerard Manley Hopkins
Gerard Manley Hopkins
Gerard Manley Hopkins
Gerard Manley Hopkins
Gerard Manley Hopkins
Gerard Manley Hopkins
Gerard Manley Hopkins
Gerard Manley Hopkins
Gerard Manley Hopkins
Gerard Manley Hopkins
Gerard Manley Hopkins
Gerard Manley Hopkins
Gerard Manley Hopkins
Gerard Manley Hopkins
Gerard Manley Hopkins
Gerard Manley Hopkins
Gerard Manley Hopkins
Gerard Manley Hopkins
Gerard Manley Hopkins
Gerard Manley Hopkins
Gerard Manley Hopkins
Gerard Manley Hopkins
Gerard Manley Hopkins
Gerard Manley Hopkins
Gerard Manley Hopkins
Gerard Manley Hopkins
Gerard Manley Hopkins
Gerard Manley Hopkins
Gerard Manley Hopkins
Gerard Manley Hopkins
Gerard Manley Hopkins
Gerard Manley Hopkins
Gerard Manley Hopkins
Gerard Manley Hopkins
Gerard Manley Hopkins
Gerard Manley Hopkins
Gerard Manley Hopkins
Gerard Manley Hopkins
Gerard Manley Hopkins
Gerard Manley Hopkins
Gerard Manley Hopkins
Gerard Manley Hopkins
Gerard Manley Hopkins
Gerard Manley Hopkins
Gerard Manley Hopkins
Gerard Manley Hopkins
Gerard Manley Hopkins
Gerard Manley Hopkins
Gerard Manley Hopkins
Gerard Manley Hopkins
Gerard Manley Hopkins
Gerard Manley Hopkins
Gerard Manley Hopkins
Gerard Manley Hopkins
Gerard Manley Hopkins
Gerard Manley Hopkins
Gerard Manley Hopkins
Gerard Manley Hopkins
One mark of an excellent religious poem is that it gives the reader insight into the writer’s struggle with his faith. That struggle is found in Hopkins' alarming and powerful struggle with language, and in particular with the sonnet form.
In Carrion Comfort Hopkins plays with Hamlet’s most famous...
40 (Carrion Comfort)
Not, I'll not, carrion comfort, Despair, not feast on thee;
Not untwist—slack they may be—these last strands of man
In me ór, most weary, cry I can no more. I can;
Can something, hope, wish day come, not choose not to be.
But ah, but O thou terrible, why wouldst thou rude on me
Thy wring-world right foot rock? lay a lionlimb against me? scan
With darksome devouring eyes my bruisèd bones? and fan,
O in turns of tempest, me heaped there; me frantic to avoid thee and flee?
Why? That my chaff might fly; my grain lie, sheer and clear.
Nay in all that toil, that coil, since (seems) I kissed the rod,
Hand rather, my heart lo! lapped strength, stole joy, would laugh, chéer.
Cheer whom though? the hero whose heaven-handling flung me, fóot tród
Me? or me that fought him? O which one? is it each one? That night, that year
Of now done darkness I wretch lay wrestling with (my God!) my God.