Priest, poet, and rich family background

Gerard Manley Hopkins is considered to be one of the greatest poets of the Victorian era. However, because his style was so radically different from that of his contemporaries, his best poems were not accepted for publication during his lifetime, and his achievement was not fully recognized until after World War I. Hopkins’s family encouraged his artistic talents when he was a youth in Essex, England. However, Hopkins became estranged from his Protestant family when he converted to Roman Catholicism. Upon deciding to become a priest, he burned all of his poems and did not write again for many years. His work was not published until 30 years after his death when his friend Robert Bridges edited the volume Poems. Quote from Poetry Foundation. A Gerald Manly Hopkins poem.

Nondum (Latin: Not Yet)

God, though to Thee our psalm we raise
No answering voice comes from the skies;
To Thee the trembling sinner prays
But no forgiving voice replies;
Our prayer seems lost in desert ways,
Our hymn in the vast silence dies.

We see the glories of the earth
But not the hand that wrought them all:
Night to a myriad worlds gives birth,
Yet like a lighted empty hall
Where stands no host at door or hearth
Vacant creation’s lamps appall.

We guess; we clothe Thee, unseen King,
With attributes we deem are meet;
Each in his own imagining
Sets up a shadow in Thy seat;
Yet know not how our gifts to bring,
Where seek Thee with unsandalled feet.

And still th’unbroken silence broods
While ages and while æons runs,
As erst upon chaotic floods
The Spirit hovered ere the sun
Had called the seasons’ changeful moods
And life’s first germs from death had won.

And still th’abysses infinite
Surround the peak from which we gaze.
Deep calls to deep, and blackest night
Giddies the soul with blinding daze
That dares to cast its searching sight
On being’s dread and vacant maze.

And Thou art silent, whilst Thy world
Contends about its many creeds
And hosts confront with flags unfurled
And zeal is flushed and pity bleeds
And truth is heard, with tears impearled,
A moaning voice among the reeds.

My hand upon my lips I lay;
The breast’s desponding sob I quell;
I move along life’ tomb-decked way
And listen to the passing bell
Summoning men from speechless day
To death’s more silent, darker spell.

Oh! till Thou givest that sense beyond,
To shew Thee that Thou art, and near,
Let patience with her chastening wand
And lead me child-like by the hand
If still in darkness not in fear.

Speak! whisper to my watching heart
One word-as when a mother speaks
Soft, when she sees her infant start,
Till dimpled joy steals o’er its cheeks.
Then, to behold Thee as Thou art,
I’ll wait till morn eternal breaks.

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De Profundis

a poem by Christina Rossetti

                                         Oh why is heaven built so far,
                                         Oh why is earth set so remote?
                                         I cannot reach the nearest star
                                         That hangs afloat.

                                        I would not care to reach the moon,
                                        One round monotonous of change;
                                        Yet even she repeats her tune
                                        Beyond my range.

                                        I never watch the scatter’d fire
                                        Of stars, or sun’s far-trailing train,
                                        But all my heart is one desire,
                                        And all in vain:

                                        For I am bound with fleshly bands,
                                        Joy, beauty, lie beyond my scope;
                                        I strain my heart, I stretch my hands,
                                       And catch at hope.

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Another Day

There is nothing I can do,
Within the falling rain.
And God’s silent refrain,
The thunder and the pain.

The murder of many,
Gunshots and wounds,
Assault rifles and weapons,
Another hostage screams out.

And the silence remains,
Brilliant men riddle,
Crack pots exhume,
Pretending prophets speak proud.

Loyalties abused, divisions entrenched,
Intimidation and insults launched about,
Dead bodies and lifelines,
This time around.

I have fallen, an act consumed,
Bewildered and selfish,
A one-day clock chimes loud,
I know nothing, I know nothing.

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A Poem for Anna

We are set apart,
Something not a part,
Something distant
From the changing times,
The blowing winds,
The seaside escapes,
The tiny escapades,
From running reasoning minds
Of brilliance and cavalcades,
The rising of the tide,
Indisputable arguments,
The wrestling with impermanence,
We sit silent, unafraid,


Not needing,
Not needing reinforcements,
Not needing attention,
Not needing victory,
Not seeking to defeat,
The difficult suffering,


What we do is hard,
Content in being apart,
Passing beads through fingertips,
Touching and caressing,
The presence lingering within,

Expanding darkness,
Empty space filling,
Purging imperfections,
Overwhelmed and tongue-tied,
At peace in rustic abstinence,
Content with our wretched poetry,
Unafraid, fearing no thing,

Happy with all things,
Loving and kind,
Fighting back the violence within,
Aware the battle is within,

Knowing hope,
Knowing charity,
Knowing faith,

While unsure about everything,
Doubting ourselves,
Not believing in ourselves,
Fasting, abnegation, frugality,
Renouncing, rejecting, refusing,
Flowering from within.

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Invocation

…..sorrowful mysteries,

Purging at the pillar,

Meditating upon purity,

A cleansing,

Myself disciplining,

Peaceful dove,

Teach us wisdom,

Teach us love,

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Discernment

If it is the Lord really working through our thoughts, he will persist despite our attempts to dismiss them. If, as is much more likely, it is our own mind seeking to insert themselves into the contemplative work, these insights will usually fade away once we seriously seek to dismiss them. Thus I have found it quite safe, and pleasing to the Lord, to say to the Him: Lord if these thoughts and images are really from you, you insist on them. But since it is more likely that I am the source of them and they are interfering with Your work in me, I will continue quietly to push them aside.  –“When the Well Runs Dry: Prayer Beyond the Beginnings” Father Thomas H. Green

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