“Epithalamion” by Gerard Manley Hopkins

Originally published as a fragment in Robert Bridges’ 1918 collection of Hopkins’ work, here “Epithalamion” gets a little help from Jonathon Penny (in italics). First published at Wilderness Interface Zone on Feb 14, 2012. http://wilderness.motleyvision.org/2012/ epithalamion-by-gerard-manley-hopkins/ 

HARK, hearer, hear what I do; lend a thought now, make believe
We are leafwhelmed somewhere with the hood 
Of some branchy bunchy bushybowered wood, 
Southern dene or Lancashire clough or Devon cleave,
That leans along the loins of hills, where a candycoloured, where a gluegold-brown 
Marbled river, boisterously beautiful, between 
Roots and rocks is danced and dandled, all in froth and waterblowballs, down. 
We are there, when we hear a shout 
That the hanging honeysuck, the dogeared hazels in the cover Makes dither, makes hover 
And the riot of a rout 
Of, it must be, boys from the town 
Bathing: it is summer’s sovereign good. 

By there comes a listless stranger: beckoned by the noise
He drops towards the river: unseen 
Sees the bevy of them, how the boys 
With dare and with downdolphinry and bellbright bodies huddling out, 
Are earthworld, airworld, waterworld thorough hurled, all by turn and turn about. 

This garland of their gambols flashes in his breast
Into such a sudden zest 
Of summertime joys 
That he hies to a pool neighbouring; sees it is the best
There; sweetest, freshest, shadowiest; 
Fairyland; silk-beech, scrolled ash, packed sycamore, wild wychelm, hornbeam fretty overstood 
By. Rafts and rafts of flake-leaves light, dealt so, painted on the air, 
Hang as still as hawk or hawkmoth, as the stars or as the angels there, 
Like the thing that never knew the earth, never off roots
Rose. Here he feasts: lovely all is! No more: off with—down he dings 
His bleachèd both and woolwoven wear: 
Careless these in coloured wisp 
All lie tumbled-to; then with loop-locks 
Forward falling, forehead frowning, lips crisp 
Over finger-teasing task, his twiny boots 
Fast he opens, last he offwrings 
Till walk the world he can with bare his feet 
And come where lies a coffer, burly all of blocks
Built of chancequarrièd, selfquainèd rocks 
And the water warbles over into, filleted with glassy grassy quicksilvery shivès and shoots 
And with heavenfallen freshness down from moorland still brims, 
Dark or daylight on and on. Here he will then, here he will the fleet 
Flinty kindcold element let break across his limbs 

Long. Where we leave him, froliclavish, while he looks about him, laughs, swims. 
Enough now; since the sacred matter that I mean
I should be wronging longer leaving it to float 
Upon this only gambolling and echoing-of-earth note—
What is . . . the delightful dene? 
Wedlock. What the water? Spousal love. 
Who the gamboled groom? Kingfish Christ-our-Saviour
Or his son. Who the gangway, brindled, bridling bride to shear the very sheep of him? 
Church and churchgoing churchcoming churchliving churchloving
Christkeeping. Who, indeed, the latecome, lightshorn, grinning, gaming guests? 
We. Us. Poor. Oh! 

Father, mother, brothers, sisters, friends 
Into fairy trees, wild flowers, wood ferns 
Rankèd round the bower leap! assemble! and withdraw the veiling world 
And witness there the sunblonde, brightburned waking
And the wedding of the Word wellspoken, wild, child, grown
Aggrievèd, grieved, and greeted 
Gastly, good.