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The Wreck Of The Deutschland

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

to the happy memory of five Francisan nuns, exiles by the Falck Laws,
drowned between midnight |&| morning of December 7 [[1875]].


 Thou mastering me
  God! giver of breath and bread;
 World's strand, sway of the sea;
  Lord of living |&| dead;
  Thou hast bound bones |&| veins in me, fastened me flesh,
  And after it {'a}lmost {'u}nmade, what with dread,
  Thy doing: |&| dost thou touch me afresh?
 Over again I feel thy finger |&| find the{'e}.

 I did say yes
  O at lightning |&| lashed rod;
 Thou heardst me truer than tongue confess
  Thy terror, O Christ, O God;
  Thou knowest the walls, altar |&| hour |&| night:
  The swoon of a heart that the sweep |&| the hurl of thee trod
  Hard down with a horror of height:
 And the midriff astrain with leaning of, laced with fire of stress.

 The frown of his face
  Before me, the hurtle of hell
 Behind, where, where was a, where was a place?
  I whirled out wings that spell
  And fled with a fling of the heart to the heart of the Host.
  My heart, but you were dovewinged, I can tell,
  Carrier-witted, I am bold to boast,
 To flash from the flame to the flame then, tower from the grace to the

 I am soft sift
  In an hourglass -- at the wall
 Fast, but mined with a motion, a drift,
  And it crowds |&| it combs to the fall;
  I steady as a water in a well, to a poise, to a pane,
  But roped with, always, all the way down from the tall
  Fells or flanks of the voel, a vein
 Of the gospel proffer, a pressure, a principle, Christ's gift.

 I kiss my hand
  To the stars, lovely-asunder
 Starlight, wafting him out of it; and
  Glow, glory in thunder;
  Kiss my hand to the dappled-with-damson west:
  Since, tho' he is under the world's splendour |&| wonder,
  His mystery must be instressed, stressed;
 For I greet him the days I meet him, |&| bless when I understand.

 Not out of his bliss
  Springs the stress felt
 Nor first from heaven (and few know this)
  Swings the stroke dealt --
  Stroke |&| a stress that stars |&| storms deliver,
  That guilt is hushed by, hearts are flushed by |&| melt --
  But it rides time like riding a river
 (And here the faithful waver, the faithless fable |&| miss).

 It dates from day
  Of his going in Galilee;
 Warm-laid grave of a womb-life grey;
  Manger, maiden's knee;
  The dense |&| the driven Passion, |&| frightful sweat:
  Thence the discharge of it, there its swelling to be,
  Tho' felt before, though in high flood yet --
 What none would have known of it, only the heart, being hard at bay,

 Is out with it! Oh,
  We lash with the best or worst
  Word last! How a lush-kept plush-capped sloe
  Will, mouthed to flesh-burst,
 Gush! -- flush the man, the being with it, sour or sweet,
  Brim, in a flash, full! -- Hither then, last or first,
 To hero of Calvary, Christ,'s feet --
  Never ask if meaning it, wanting it, warned of it -- men go.

 Be adored among men,
  God, three-number{'e}d form;
 Wring thy rebel, dogged in den,
  Man's malice, with wrecking |&| storm.
  Beyond saying sweet, past telling of tongue,
  Thou art lightning |&| love, I found it, a winter |&| warm;
  Father |&| fondler of heart thou hast wrung:
 Hast thy dark descending |&| most art merciful then.

 With an anvil-ding
  And with fire in him forge thy will
 Or rather, rather then, stealing as Spring
  Through him, melt him but master him still:
  Whether {'a}t {'o}nce, as once at a crash Paul,
  Or as Austin, a lingering-out sweet skill,
  Make mercy in all of us, out of us all
 Mastery, but be adored, but be adored king.

Part the second

----------------------------------- ----------------------------------------

< br>
 "Some find me a sword; some
  The flange |&| the rail; flame,
 Fang, or flood" goes Death on drum,
  And storms bugle his fame.
  But w{'e} dr{'e}am we are rooted in earth -- Dust!
  Flesh falls within sight of us, we, though our flower the same,
  Wave with the meadow, forget that there must
 The sour scythe cringe, |&| the blear share come.

 On Saturday sailed from Bremen,
 Take settler |&| seamen, tell men with women,
  Two hundred souls in the round --
  O Father, not under th
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Submitted on May 13, 2011

3:47 min read

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