Sunday, April 29, 2007


When will you ever, Peace, wild wooddove, shy wings shut,
Your round me roaming end, and under be my boughs?
When, when, Peace, will you, Peace?
I'll not play hypocrite
To my own heart: I yield you do come sometimes; but
That piecemeal peace is poor peace. What pure peace allows
Alarms of wars, the daunting wars, the death of it?

O surely, reaving Peace, my Lord should leave in lieu
Some good! And so he does leave Patience exquisite,
That plumes* to Peace thereafter. And when Peace does house**
He comes with work to do, he does not come to coo,
He comes to brood and sit.***
---Gerard Manley Hopkins, 1879

*plumes out, grows into a full-fledged bird
**make a dwelling
***to hatch something new & more special

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