The Windhover, by Gerard Manley Hopkins
To Christ our Lord
I caught this morning morning’s minion, king-
dom of daylight’s dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding
Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding
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 and gliding
Rebuffed the big wind. My heart in hiding
Stirred for a bird, – the achieve of, the mastery of the thing!
Brute beauty and valour and act, or, air, pride, plume, here
Buckle! AND the fire that breaks from thee then, a billion
Times told lovelier, more dangerous. O my chevalier!
No wonder of it: shéer plód makes plough down sillion
Shine, and blue-bleak embers, ah my dear,
Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermillion.
I don’t read enough poetry these days.
It’s been an ok Lent. I haven’t discovered any new wells of piety within me, and I’ve failed at times. But I think I’ve found the thread, the sensation of Easter not just as an exclamation point on the calendar, but as time’s true center of gravity.
I apologize again for being a little tongue-tied on here as of late. There is, as usual, a lot swirling around inside my head on multiple fronts, but the words haven’t been as forthcoming.
Anyway, I hope you guys have a blessed Easter.