Gin I’m a livan tongue loe me;
Saebins we’ll hae mair bairns:
Gin I’m a deid tongue nae call for keenin,
Ye’ll find me wi the gods
Ayont the reaveries ο Time:
Yon are the gowden tongues!
1955
Erd is dirlan with the granderie of God.
It will bleeze to a kything like shell-gold’s shakken foil:
It gedders til a granderie, weel-preasit like ooze of oil.
What way than div men nae mair mind his rod?
Generations hae trod, hae trod, hae trod;
And aathing’s smeared with trade, blad, blain with toil,
And deed in human smudge and reek: plene soil
Lies bare, feet fond to kiss the dews, go shod.
Nay, for aa yon, nature bydes aye in fleur;
Bydes aye the fondest freshness deep doon things;
And gin day’s last lichts hint the black West cour,
Be-east, O dawkenin, by yon brown break springs –
For that the Hailie Ghaist ower Erd’s bent floor
Broods laich, plume sunlit, – And O luik ye! The gowden wings!
1968
by Gerard Manley Hopkins
The world is charged with the grandeur of God.
It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;
It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil
Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod?
Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;
And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;
And wears man’s smudge and shares man’s smell: the soil
Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.
And for all this, nature is never spent;
There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;
And though the last lights off the black West went
Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs –
Because the Holy Ghost over the bent
World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.
1918
Thon shade-shed burnie, horse-back broon,
Wheelmagig rock-ower hurlan doon,
Coopt and coomed in the flisk ο his faem
Fluchts, syne laich til the loch wins hame.
A skimmeran wind-ba of fàwn-fròth
Twists and twindles ower the broth
Of a pule sae pik-dark, féll fróunan
It rouns and rouns Wanhope til drownan.
Brockit with dew, droukit with dew
Are the howes of the braes the burn threeds thru;
Heather-cowes and bracken fern,
And the bead-bonny ash that sets ower the burn.
Whaur would this warld be, scant
Of weet and of wild-like days. Tak tent
Case-be we scaithe yon maikless sweet
Green wilderness, aneath our feet.
1968
by Gerard Manley Hopkins
This darksome burn, horseback brown,
His rollrock highroad roaring down,
In coop and in comb the fleece of his foam
Flutes and low to the lake falls home.
A windpuff-bonnet of fáwn-fróth
Turns and twindles over the broth
Of a pool so pitchblack, féll-frówning,
It rounds and rounds Despair to drowning.
Degged with dew, dappled with dew
Are the groins of the braes that the brook treads through,
Wiry heathpacks, flitches of fern,
And the beadbonny ash that sits over the burn.
What would the world be, once bereft
Of wet and of wildness? Let them be left,
O let them be left, wildness and wet;
Long live the weeds and the wilderness yet.
My ain hert lat me nae conter aye, lat
Me efterhend til my glum sel byde kind,
Mair love-fraught: nor fore-and-back this torkit mind
Whackan twa-fauld, sae whackan ball and bat.
I claucht at conforts I can nae mair get at
By graipan roun onconfort, nor e’en nicht-blind
Can win, thro their mirk, day; nor drouth can find
Drouth’s aa in aa, in aa a wardle’s wat.
Saule, sel, here’s my avisement, quait, quait!
Adone, puir jaded Jack-ma-sel, lowse awhile!
Gie confort ruit-room, everie joy maun spate
In God’s guid time, in God’s guid kennin. Heaven’s smile
’s nae wry smile, – cud be shy smile – sae skies gangrel gait
Foilzies mirk bens – lichtens a loesome mile.
1968
by Gerard Manley Hopkins
My own heart let me more have pity on; let
Me live to my sad self hereafter kind,
Charitable; not live this tormented mind
With this tormented mind tormenting yet.
I cast for comfort I can no more get
By groping round my comfortless, than blind
Eyes in their dark can day or thirst can find
Thirst’s all-in-all in all a world of wet.
Soul, self; come, poor Jackself, I do advise
You, jaded, let be; call off thoughts awhile
Elsewhere; leave comfort root-room; let joy size
At God knows when to God knows what; whose smile
’s not wrung, see you; unforeseen times rather – as skies
Betweenpie mountains – lights a lovely mile.
loe: love
saebins: so that
keenin: mourning
reaveries: thefts
gowden: golden