246 Spiritual poems

My Soul, there is a country Afar beyond the stars, Where stands a winged sentry All skillful in the wars; There, above noise and danger Sweet Peace sits, crown’d with smiles, And One born in a manger Commands the beauteous files. He is thy gracious friend And (O my Soul awake!) Did in pure love descend, To die here for thy sake. If thou canst get but thither, There grows the flow’r of peace, The rose that cannot wither, Thy fortress, and thy ease. Leave then thy foolish ranges, For none can thee secure, But One, who never changes, Thy God, thy life, thy cure.

I turned: quivering yellow stars in blackness I wept: how speech may save a woman The picture changes & promises the heroine That nighttime & meditation are a mirage To discuss pro & contra here is mute Do I not love you, day? A pure output of teleological intentions & she babbles, developing a picture-theory of language Do I not play the delicate game of language? yes, & it is antecedent to the affairs of the world: The dish, the mop, the stove, the bed, the marriage & surges forth the world in which I love I and I and I and I and I and I, infinitely reversible Yet never secure in the long morning texture A poor existing woman-being, accept her broken heart & yet the earth is divinity, the sky is divinity The nomads walk & walk.

Imagine Lucifer An angel without angelness An apple Plucked clear by will of taste, color, Strength, beauty, roundness, seed Absent of all God painted, present everything An apple is. Imagine Lucifer An angel without angelness A poem That has revised itself out of sound Imagine, rhyme, concordance Absent of all God spoke of, present everything A poem is. The law I say, the Law Is? What is Lucifer An emperor with no clothes No skin, no flesh, no heart An emperor!

Don’t bother the earth spirit who lives here. She is working on a story. It is the oldest story in the world and it is delicate, changing. If she sees you watching she will invite you in for coffee, give you warm bread, and you will be obligated to stay and listen. But this is no ordinary story. You will have to endure earthquakes, lightning, the deaths of all those you love, the most blinding beauty. It’s a story so compelling you may never want to leave; this is how she traps you. See that stone finger over there? That is the only one who ever escaped.

Highlight Actions Enable or disable annotations To Christ our Lord I caught this morning morning's minion minion favorite, darling; also, an underling or servant , king- dom of daylight's dauphin dauphin prince; a French historical term, along with “chevalier” , 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 wimpling rippling 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, oh, air, pride, plume, here Buckle! Buckle! to bend, attach; prepare for flight or battle. The verb could be descriptive of the bird’s action, or it could be the speaker’s imperative. AND the fire that breaks from thee then, a billion Times told lovelier, more dangerous, O my chevalier! chevalier French word for “knight” or “champion”; pronounced Chev-ah-leer, to rhyme with “here” and “dear” No wonder of it: shéer plód shéer plód slowly, laboriously, and without break; these accent marks, inserted by Hopkins, tell the reader to place more accent or emphasis on those syllables when reading aloud makes plough down sillion sillion Fresh soil upturned by a plow (“plough”) Shine, and blue-bleak embers, ah my dear ah my dear Compare with the same phrase in the poem “Love (III)” by George Herbert, a poet Hopkins admired. , Fall, gall gall to become sore, crack, or chafe themselves, and gash gold- vermilion vermilion a vibrant scarlet color .

The hastily assembled angel flies With patchwork wings red patches and white patches And yellow patches blood and emptiness And sun and usually      an angel’s wings would Be made of  only one of  these      but his Were made at the last minute and were almost Not made at all and wouldn’t have been made Had Azrael not seen      in the hastily Assembled angel’s eyes as Azrael Placed his white palm on the hastily assembled Angel’s chest fear      as Azrael placed his palm there To shove him from the cloud      and saw he had No wings      and paused and thought      then pulled him back And so the angels stitched together what was Near      blood      emptiness      sun      as what was near Was Heaven      and what else would Heaven be

Leave it to the street vendors of NYC to improvise a shrine from whatever they find, setting a place at their table for animal and divine nature symbolically joined with color-coded floral candelabras.

How like an angel came I down! How bright are all things here! When first among his works I did appear O how their glory me did crown! The world resembled his eternity, In which my soul did walk; And ev’ry thing that I did see Did with me talk. The skies in their magnificence, The lively, lovely air; Oh how divine, how soft, how sweet, how fair! The stars did entertain my sense, And all the works of God, so bright and pure, So rich and great did seem, As if they ever must endure In my esteem. A native health and innocence Within my bones did grow, And while my God did all his glories show, I felt a vigour in my sense That was all spirit. I within did flow With seas of life, like wine; I nothing in the world did know But ’twas divine. Harsh ragged objects were conceal’d, Oppressions tears and cries, Sins, griefs, complaints, dissensions, weeping eyes Were hid, and only things reveal’d Which heav’nly spirits, and the angels prize. The state of innocence And bliss, not trades and poverties, Did fill my sense. The streets were pav’d with golden stones, The boys and girls were mine, Oh how did all their lovely faces shine! The sons of men were holy ones, In joy and beauty they appear’d to me, And every thing which here I found, While like an angel I did see, Adorn’d the ground. Rich diamond and pearl and gold In ev’ry place was seen; Rare splendours, yellow, blue, red, white and green, Mine eyes did everywhere behold. Great wonders cloth’d with glory did appear, Amazement was my bliss, That and my wealth was ev’ry where: No joy to this! Curs’d and devis’d proprieties, With envy, avarice And fraud, those fiends that spoil even Paradise, Flew from the splendour of mine eyes, And so did hedges, ditches, limits, bounds, I dream’d not aught of those, But wander’d over all men’s grounds, And found repose. Proprieties themselves were mine, And hedges ornaments; Walls, boxes, coffers, and their rich contents Did not divide my joys, but all combine. Clothes, ribbons, jewels, laces, I esteem’d My joys by others worn: For me they all to wear them seem’d When I was born.

For A.B. She said God. He seems to be there when I call on Him but calling has been difficult too. Painful.

I saw Eternity the other night, Like a great ring of pure and endless light, All calm, as it was bright; And round beneath it, Time in hours, days, years, Driv’n by the spheres Like a vast shadow mov’d; in which the world And all her train were hurl’d. The doting lover in his quaintest strain Did there complain; Near him, his lute, his fancy, and his flights, Wit’s sour delights, With gloves, and knots, the silly snares of pleasure, Yet his dear treasure All scatter’d lay, while he his eyes did pour Upon a flow’r. The darksome statesman hung with weights and woe, Like a thick midnight-fog mov’d there so slow, He did not stay, nor go; Condemning thoughts (like sad eclipses) scowl Upon his soul, And clouds of crying witnesses without Pursued him with one shout. Yet digg’d the mole, and lest his ways be found, Work’d under ground, Where he did clutch his prey; but one did see That policy; Churches and altars fed him; perjuries Were gnats and flies; It rain’d about him blood and tears, but he Drank them as free. The fearful miser on a heap of rust Sate pining all his life there, did scarce trust His own hands with the dust, Yet would not place one piece above, but lives In fear of thieves; Thousands there were as frantic as himself, And hugg’d each one his pelf; The downright epicure plac’d heav’n in sense, And scorn’d pretence, While others, slipp’d into a wide excess, Said little less; The weaker sort slight, trivial wares enslave, Who think them brave; And poor despised Truth sate counting by Their victory. Yet some, who all this while did weep and sing, And sing, and weep, soar’d up into the ring; But most would use no wing. O fools (said I) thus to prefer dark night Before true light, To live in grots and caves, and hate the day Because it shews the way, The way, which from this dead and dark abode Leads up to God, A way where you might tread the sun, and be More bright than he. But as I did their madness so discuss One whisper’d thus, “This ring the Bridegroom did for none provide, But for his bride.”