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The Windhover

Gerard Manley Hopkins 1844 (Stratford, London) – 1889 (Dublin)

To Christ our Lord
 I caught this morning morning's minion, king{\-}
  dom of daylight's dauphin, dapple-d{'a}wn-drawn Falcon, in his riding
  Of the r{'o}lling level {'u}ndern{'e}ath him steady {'a}ir, |&|
str{'i}ding
 High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing
 In his ecstasy! then off, off forth on swing,
  As a skate's heel sweeps smooth on a bow-bend: the hurl |&| gliding
  Rebuffed the big wind. My heart in hiding
 Stirred for a bird, -- the achieve of, the mastery of the thing!

 Brute beauty |&| valour |&| act, oh, air, pride, plume, here
  Buckle! AND the fire that breaks from thee then, a billion
 Times told lovelier, more dangerous, o my chevalier!
  No w{'o}nder of it: sh{'e}er pl{'o}d makes pl{'o}ugh down s{'i}llion
 Shine, |&| blue-bleak embers, ah my dear,
  Fall, g{'a}ll thems{'e}lves, |&| g{'a}sh g{'o}ld-verm{'i}lion.

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Submitted on May 13, 2011

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