Poems

Below you will find 28 of Hopkins’s most well-known poems. The text for each is taken from the first edition of his poetry, edited by Robert Bridges and available on Project Gutenberg. Readers should note that in most cases the titles were provided by the poet, but in a few cases he did not assign titles and so by convention they are represented by the first line of the poem and identified by quotation marks.

Alphabetical by Title

“As kingfishers catch fire, dragonflies draw flame”

As kingfishers catch fire, dragonflies dráw fláme;
As tumbled over rim in roundy wells

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Binsey Poplars

My aspens dear, whose airy cages quelled,
Quelled or quenched in leaves the leaping sun,

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(Carrion Comfort)

Not, I’ll not, carrion comfort, Despair, not feast on thee;
Not untwist — slack they may be — these last strands of man

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Duns Scotus’s Oxford

Towery city and branchy between towers;
Cuckoo-echoing, bell-swarmèd, lark charmèd, rook-
racked, river-rounded;

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Felix Randal

Felix Randal the farrier, O is he dead then? my duty all ended,
Who have watched his mould of man, big-boned and hardy-
handsome

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God’s Grandeur

The world is charged with the grandeur of God.
It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;

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Heaven-Haven

I have desired to go
Where springs not fail,

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Henry Purcell

Have fair fallen, O fair, fair have fallen, so dear
To me, so arch-especial a spirit as heaves in Henry Purcell,

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Hurrahing in Harvest

Summer ends now; now, barbarous in beauty, the
stooks rise
Around; up above, what wind-walks! what lovely
behaviour

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“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

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Inversnaid

This darksome burn, horseback brown,
His rollrock highroad roaring down,

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“My own heart let me more have pity on; let”

My own heart let me more have pity on; let
Me live to my sad self hereafter kind,

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“No worst, there is none. Pitched past pitch of grief,”

No worst, there is none. Pitched past pitch of grief,
More pangs will, schooled at forepangs, wilder wring.

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“Patience, hard thing! the hard thing but to pray,

Patience, hard thing! the hard thing but to pray,
But bid for, Patience is! Patience who asks

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Peace

When will you ever, Peace, wild wooddove, shy wings shut,
Your round me roaming end, and under be my boughs?

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Pied Beauty

Glory be to God for dappled things—
For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;

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Ribblesdale

Earth, sweet Earth, sweet landscape, with leavès throng
And louchèd low grass, heaven that dost appeal

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Spelt from Sibyl’s Leaves

Earnest, earthless, equal, attuneable, | vaulty, voluminous, . . stupendous

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Spring

Nothing is so beautiful as spring—
When weeds, in wheels, shoot long and lovely and lush;

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Spring and Fall

Márgarét, áre you gríeving
Over Goldengrove unleaving?

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That Nature is a Heraclitean Fire and of the Comfort of the Resurrection

Cloud-puffball, torn tufts, tossed pillows | flaunt forth, then
chevy on an air-

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The Blessed Virgin compared to the Air we Breathe

Wild air, world-mothering air,
Nestling me everywhere,

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The Caged Skylark

As a dare-gale skylark scanted in a dull cage
Man’s mounting spirit in his bone-house, mean house,
dwells—

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The Sea and the Skylark

On ear and ear two noises too old to end
Trench—right, the tide that ramps against the shore;

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The Starlight Night

Look at the stars! look, look up at the skies!
O look at all the fire-folk sitting in the air!

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The Windhover

I caught this morning morning’s minion, king-
dom of daylight’s dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Fal-
con, in his riding

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“Thou art indeed just, Lord, if I contend”

Thou art indeed just, Lord, if I contend
With thee; but, sir, so what I plead is just.

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“To seem the stranger lies my lot, my life”

To seem the stranger lies my lot, my life
Among strangèrs. Father and mother dear,

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