Inversnaid
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 fawn-froth
Turns and twindles over the broth
Of a pool so pitchblack, fell-frowning,
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 wildness? Let them be left,
O let them be left, wildness and wet;
Long live the weeds and the wilderness yet.
Commentary
taken from the complete works, published posthumously in 1910 (edited by robert bridges).
gerard manley hopkins was a jesuit priest and scholar, and his poetic themes centre around faith, doubt and reason. i like this particular poem, though, for its sheer lyrical beauty.
hopkins’ study of welsh led him to the creation of ‘sprung rhythm’ (where metre depends only on the stressed syllables and ignores the unstressed) and counterpoint. this (and his other structural innovations) placed him far ahead of his time; indeed, many consider hopkins to be the father of modern verse.
you can read more about hopkins at
http://www.mcs.drexel.edu/~gbrandal/Illum_html/Hopkins.html
http://www.stg.brown.edu/projects/hypertext/landow/victorian/hopkins/hopkins12.html
— Thomas
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From the Wondering Minstrels mailing list, 1999–2008.
Hutch · 17 May 2005
“Long live the weeds and the wilderness yet.” indeed! … And God bless the grass.
Hutch
God Bless the Grass
Malvina Reynolds
God Bless the grass
That grows through the crack
They roll the concrete over it
To try and keep it back
The concrete gets tired
Of what it has to do
It breaks and it buckles
And the grass grows through.
God bless the grass
God bless the truth
That fights towards the sun
They roll the lies over it
And think that it is done
It moves through the ground
It reaches for the air
And after a while
It’s growing everywhere.
God bless the grass
God bless the grass
that grows through cement
It’s green and it’s tender
And easily bent
But after a while
It lifts up its head
For the grass is living
And the stone is dead.
And God blessed the grass
God bless the grass
That’s gentle and low
The roots they are deep
And the will is to grow
And God bless the Truth
The friend of the poor
And the wild grass growing
At the poor man’s door.
God bless the grass
Cyril Satorsky · 6 March 2007
a great poem, goes to the heart.