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Poems of Gerard Manley Hopkins

Now first published: Edited with notes by Robert Bridges
Hopkins, Gerard Manley,1844-1889

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EARLY POEMS
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[1] For a Picture of St. Dorothea
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2 Heaven—Haven
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3 The Habit of Perfection
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POEMS 1876–1889
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[4] THE WRECK OF THE DEUTSCHLAND
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5 Penmaen Pool
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6 The Silver Jubilee:
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7 God's Grandeur
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8 The Starlight Night
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9 Spring
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10 The Lantern out of Doors
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11 The Sea and the Skylark
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12 The Windhover:
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13 Pied Beauty
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14 Hurrahing in Harvest
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15 The Caged Skylark
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16 In the Valley of the Elwy
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17 The Loss of the Eurydice
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18 The May Magnificat
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19 Binsey Poplars
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20 Duns Scotus's Oxford
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21 Henry Purcell
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22 Peace
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23 The Bugler's First Communion
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24 Morning Midday and Evening Sacrifice
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25 Andromeda
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26 The Candle Indoors
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27 The Handsome Heart:
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28 At the Wedding March
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29 Felix Randal
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30 Brothers
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31 Spring and Fall:
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32 Spelt from Sibyl's Leaves
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33 Inversnaid
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34
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35 Ribblesdale
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36 The Leaden Echo and the Golden Echo
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37 The Blessed Virgin compared to the Air we Breathe
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38 To what serves Mortal Beauty?
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39 (The Soldier)
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40 (Carrion Comfort)
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41
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42 Tom's Garland:
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43 Harry Ploughman
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44
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45
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46
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47
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48 That Nature is a Heraclitean Fire and of the comfort of the Resurrection
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49 In honour of St. Alphonsus Rodriguez
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50
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51 To R. B.
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UNFINISHED POEMS & FRAGMENTS
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52 Summa
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53
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54 On the Portrait of Two Beautiful Young People
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55
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56 (Ash-boughs)
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57
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58 St. Winefred's Well
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Act I.
 I. 
Sc. I
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Act II.
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59
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60
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61 Cheery Beggar
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62
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63
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64 The Woodlark
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65 Moonrise
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66
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67 On a piece of music
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68
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69
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70 To his Watch
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71
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72 Epithalamion
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73
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74

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45

[I wake and feel the fell of dark, not day.]

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.
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