I bear a basket lined with grass;

I am so light, I am so fair,

That men must wonder as I pass

And at the basket that I bear,

Where in a newly-drawn green litter

Sweet flowers I carry, — sweets for bitter.

Lilies I shew you, lilies none,

None in Caesar’s gardens blow, —

And a quince in hand, — not one

Is set upon your boughs below;

Not set, because their buds not spring;

Spring not, ’cause world is wintering.

But these were found in the East and South

Where Winter is the clime forgot. —

The dewdrop on the larkspur’s mouth

O should it then be quenchèd not?

In starry water-meads they drew

These drops: which be they? stars or dew?

Had she a quince in hand? Yet gaze:

Rather it is the sizing moon.

Lo, linkèd heavens with milky ways!

That was her larkspur row. — So soon?

Sphered so fast, sweet soul? — We see

Nor fruit, nor flowers, nor Dorothy.




Gerard Manley Hopkins

Poems by Gerard Manley Hopkins