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
This poem was written sometime around 1885 and 1886, and was one of a six sonnets that Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844-1889) wrote exploring the believer’s despair at the absence of God, the sense of alienation from divine love, and the existential nagging of fear and doubt. Hopkins at the time had beg...
45
I WAKE and feel the fell of dark, not day.
What hours, O what black hoürs 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.