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, oh, 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-vermilion.
DEPENDABILITY
he had dreamed up
disintegrated in a matter of moments,
but still his breath
kept coming in and going out.
Another time, a tragedy took place
in his house, but his breath
didn’t break its rhythm.
Rain fell for fourteen days
one summer, but
it didn’t bother his breath.
His hopes have been burned
to cinders occasionally,
and the love of his life
lost color and passed away,
but his brave breath
didn’t notice,
never stopped being of service.
A TIE FOR EVERY OCCASION
He has a tie
that is correct for a concert
in the park, and another
for an informal gathering at a friend’s.
He has a bow tie with bachelor buttons
in white stripes,
perfect for finding friendship
under an affable moon.
He wears a different tie
for following his heart
than he does for uncovering
the ideas his students conceal
in English class.
Yesterday he wore a silver tie
while sipping coffee in a cafe,
this morning a navy one
while a new day
was knocking on his door.
DIARY
On the tenth he met
a marvelous wind
wandering through the park.
On the eleventh,
everything he thought was key
came crashing down.
On the twelfth he fought
to pick up the pieces,
but on the thirteenth
he threw them into the sky,
where the same wind
whipped them away.
On the fourteenth
he forgot who he was,
which was fortunate,
for that’s how he found himself
free in the park
with the friendly wind
walking by his side.
A tiny fly floated down
to his poem this morning.
He had made six lines of words,
and now this fly had found
a single word to settle on.
It was a noun,
nothing special,
just a soft single-syllable word,
but it gave the fly
a place to land and let
its muscles rest
in the midst of its excursion,
just like his poem
was doing.
MORNING SHINE
The streets in his town
seem as shiny as ribbons
each morning, and the sidewalks
beside the stores are silvery.
There’s a shimmer on the windows
of his car as he drives to work
each morning, and the miracle
of elegance seems to be present
on the porches of all the houses.
His desk at school shines
as he sits down for the first time
and takes up a glossy pencil.
Far off, the mountains
are polished by something,
as are all the rivers and seas,
the planets and scattering stars.
A NEW WINDOW
One day
he found a new window
in his apartment.
It opened in a peaceful manner,
and strangely,
it made his folded life
feel like it was opening also.
The look of trees
became unbelievable,
the streets seemed bold,
the car across the street
sparkled like it came
from a blessed land.
He saw things
he’d never seen before –
the vividness of smiles,
the softness of hearts.
He wondered about other
undiscovered windows.
WHAT HE CAN DO TO HELP
In the face of the disastrous news
on the morning show,
what he can do
is place the lid on the pot
in as precise a way as possible.
He can set the burner
so it becomes bright.
He can walk across the carpet
with contentment
and carefully find a shirt
and a complementary tie
in the closet. He can
pause and listen to the birds
preparing for their day.
He can marvel at the miracle
of fingers bending beautifully
to tie the tie.
SITTING
He’s seen kids sitting on stones
when the sun was sitting on rooftops.
He’s seen a woman waving
as she sat on the beach
on a day that was
sitting beside her like a friend.
He’s seen a car sitting patiently
at the curb while a whole city
sat silently around it
at three-seventeen a.m.
He’s seen stones sitting
in peace in a world of war,
grass sitting on the restful soil,
the soil sitting with its families
on the suspended and soothing earth.
A PIECE OF PAPER
He wonders what
a crumpled piece of paper
in a wastebasket
does all night.
Does it simply sit there
as the stars shed their inspiration
across the earth? Does it feel
the unfurling of the night
as the hours pass? Does it sense
that astonishing things are occurring
in countless places, that rivers
are rambling in lighthearted ways,
that streets are sleeping
after long hours with tires?
Does the crumpled paper
pretend to be someone’s
crumpled heart,
someone sitting in silence
as the stars pass
in procession overhead?
PRAISE
His hobby is praising.
He praises the crumbs on his desk
from last’s night’s snack.
He praises the three pencils
sitting side by side beside him.
He praises the trustworthy ticks
of the clock in the living room.
Outside, he praises the overcast sky,
and the rooftops resting at ease
beneath its softness.
HELPFULNESS
He lives in useful surroundings.
The stars carry their convenient lights
across the sky each night,
and a silver day usually dawns
in a completely constructive way.
Each hour is helpful to him,
and all the moments are worth
spending time with.
Everything seems handy.
The whole sky seems to be
standing by to help.
SOMETHING TO MARVEL AT
He marvels at the orderliness of things.
These days the birds start singing
at precisely four-forty-seven,
and the newspaper man makes his stop
at the house next door at six-o-six.
Stranger still, his breath enters and leaves
with correctness, his quiet heart
carries on its duties in a trustworthy way,
and the stars stream
the way they’re supposed to stream.
It’s astonishing to consider this
as he eats his perfect piece of toast
and dawn delivers another ideal day
at his doorstep.
THERAPY
When his life becomes too busy,
he sometimes thinks of things
that are resting.
He thinks of pencils relaxing on desks,
patiently waiting to be used –
of carpets quietly lying on floors --
of doors standing peacefully
but with perfect posture,
poised to open or close.
He thinks of mountains taking a break
just where they’ve been taking a break
for thousands of years,
of rivers running
like serene runners running for fun.
He thinks of his own hands
that often relax at his side,
and of the few gentle dollars
that sometimes take it easy
in his pockets.
WASHING SPINACH
Washing spinach in the sink
while birds were singing outside
sent his mind down streets of satisfaction.
He strolled past bushes in bloom,
past cars that came from paradise,
past polite trees in their spring dresses.
The streets were singing
songs of strength,
and all the birds
were bright soldiers of independence
while the spinach
was shining under the fresh water.
AT 4:42 A.M.
There was Chopin piano music,
and a printer taking its time with documents,
and two pencils sitting side by side,
and a lamp with a green shade
that glowed like a gift.
There were his hands,
happy after being washed,
and his heart holding feelings
like sprays of flowers.
There was breath
bringing the universe in,
sending it out,
bringing it in.
