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Author: Linda Sue Grimes

  • William Butler Yeats’ “Sailing to Byzantium”

    Image:  William Butler Yeats

    William Butler Yeats’ “Sailing to Byzantium”

    William Butler Yeats’ “Sailing to Byzantium” is a profound meditation on aging, art, and the quest for spiritual transcendence, despite his failure to clearly grasp the Eastern religious/philosophical concepts he strived to portray.

    Introduction and Excerpt from “Sailing to Byzantium”

    William Butler Yeats’ “Sailing to Byzantium” is a profound meditation on aging, art, and the quest for spiritual transcendence. However, despite Yeats’ deep engagement with Eastern religion and philosophy, his interpretation and application of these concepts in his poetry often reveal a “Romantic misunderstanding,” as T.S. Eliot astutely observed. 

    This misunderstanding is clearly evident in “Sailing to Byzantium,” especially in its fourth stanza, where Yeats’ vision of eternal existence through art diverges significantly from Eastern religious/philosophical principles.

    Yeats wrote “Sailing to Byzantium” in 1926, at the age of 61,  as a reflection on the aging process and the spiritual journey required to maintain vitality in the face of physical decline. 

    Sailing to Byzantium

    That is no country for old men. The young
    In one another’s arms, birds in the trees
    —Those dying generations—at their song,
    The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,
    Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long
    Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
    Caught in that sensual music all neglect
    Monuments of unageing intellect.

    An aged man is but a paltry thing,
    A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
    Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing
    For every tatter in its mortal dress,
    Nor is there singing school but studying
    Monuments of its own magnificence;
    And therefore I have sailed the seas and come
    To the holy city of Byzantium.

    O sages standing in God’s holy fire
    As in the gold mosaic of a wall,
    Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,
    And be the singing-masters of my soul.
    Consume my heart away; sick with desire
    And fastened to a dying animal
    It knows not what it is; and gather me
    Into the artifice of eternity.

    Once out of nature I shall never take
    My bodily form from any natural thing,
    But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
    Of hammered gold and gold enamelling
    To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;
    Or set upon a golden bough to sing
    To lords and ladies of Byzantium
    Of what is past, or passing, or to come.

    Commentary on “Sailing to Byzantium”

    The poem “Sailing to Byzantium” uses a journey to Byzantium (Constantinople now Istanbul,) as a metaphor for a spiritual quest, with the speaker seeking to transcend the limitations of the mortal body and achieve a form of immortality through art.

    First Stanza:  Contrasting Vividly

    That is no country for old men. The young
    In one another’s arms, birds in the trees
    —Those dying generations—at their song,
    The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,
    Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long
    Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
    Caught in that sensual music all neglect
    Monuments of unageing intellect.

    The opening stanza of “Sailing to Byzantium” presents a vivid contrast between the vitality of youth and the poet’s sense of alienation from the natural world as he ages. Yeats paints a picture of a country teeming with life, where “The young / In one another’s arms, birds in the trees” and “the mackerel-crowded seas” represent the cyclical nature of life and death. 

    The phrase “Those dying generations” underscores the transient nature of all living things, a concept that aligns with Eastern philosophy’s emphasis on impermanence.  However, Yeats’ reaction to this natural cycle reveals a departure from Eastern thought. 

    While Buddhism and Hinduism often advocate for acceptance of life’s impermanence, Yeats expresses a desire to escape it. His assertion that “all neglect / Monuments of unageing intellect” suggests a privileging of human intellect and art over the natural world, a distinctly Western perspective that contradicts the Eastern emphasis on harmony with nature.

    Second Stanza:  Aging and the Quest for Renewal

    An aged man is but a paltry thing,
    A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
    Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing
    For every tatter in its mortal dress,
    Nor is there singing school but studying
    Monuments of its own magnificence;
    And therefore I have sailed the seas and come
    To the holy city of Byzantium.

    In the second stanza, Yeats further develops the theme of aging and the quest for spiritual renewal. The image of an aged man as “a paltry thing, / A tattered coat upon a stick” vividly conveys the physical deterioration that comes with age. However, Yeats proposes that this decline can be transcended if the soul can “clap its hands and sing, and louder sing / For every tatter in its mortal dress.”

    This concept of the soul triumphing over bodily decay echoes certain Eastern philosophical ideas, particularly the Hindu concept of the soul, which is the eternal self, transcending the physical body. 

    However, Yeats’ emphasis on the soul’s need to “sing” and study “Monuments of its own magnificence” reveals a more Western, ego-centric approach to spiritual transcendence. In contrast, many Eastern philosophies advocate for the dissolution of the ego and the realization of the soul’s unity with the Divine Reality.

    Third Stanza:  The Concept of Transformation 

    O sages standing in God’s holy fire
    As in the gold mosaic of a wall,
    Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,
    And be the singing-masters of my soul.
    Consume my heart away; sick with desire
    And fastened to a dying animal
    It knows not what it is; and gather me
    Into the artifice of eternity.

    The third stanza introduces the “sages standing in God’s holy fire,” whom the speaker implores to be the “singing-masters of my soul.”  This imagery draws on both Western and Eastern concepts, blending Christian imagery of holy fire with the Eastern idea of spiritual masters or gurus. The speaker’s desire to have his heart consumed away and to be gathered into “the artifice of eternity” reflects a yearning for spiritual transformation.

    However, Yeats’ conception of this transformation as an “artifice” created by sages diverges from Eastern philosophical traditions.  In many Eastern spiritual practices, enlightenment or liberation is seen not as an artificial state created by external forces, but as the realization of one’s true nature, of uniting the individual soul with the Oversoul, or God.  Yeats’ portrayal suggests a more Western, interventionist approach to spiritual transformation.

    Fourth Stanza: Romantic Misunderstanding

    Once out of nature I shall never take
    My bodily form from any natural thing,
    But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
    Of hammered gold and gold enamelling
    To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;
    Or set upon a golden bough to sing
    To lords and ladies of Byzantium
    Of what is past, or passing, or to come.

    The final stanza of “Sailing to Byzantium” most clearly demonstrates Yeats’ “Romantic misunderstanding” of Eastern philosophy. Here, the speaker envisions his eternal form not as a dissolution into God-consciousness (self-realization), as many Eastern traditions insist, but as a golden artifact created by “Grecian goldsmiths.”  This vision of immortality through art is fundamentally at odds with Eastern concepts of liberation from the cycle of birth and death.

    Yeats’ desire to take a form “Of hammered gold and gold enamelling” to entertain “lords and ladies of Byzantium” reveals a distinctly Western preoccupation with individual identity and artistic legacy. This contrasts sharply with Eastern religious/philosophical concepts such as the Buddhist non-self upon entering nirvana or the Hindu idea of samadhi or liberation from cycles of death and rebirth.

    Furthermore, the speaker’s intention to “sing / To lords and ladies of Byzantium / Of what is past, or passing, or to come” suggests a linear view of time that is more aligned with Western thought than with the cyclical time concepts expounded in Eastern religion/philosophy.

    While “Sailing to Byzantium” is undoubtedly a masterpiece of poetic craft, it also reveals the limitations of Yeats’ understanding and application of Eastern philosophical concepts. 

    His vision of spiritual transcendence, particularly as expressed in the fourth stanza, remains rooted in Western ideas of individual immortality and artistic legacy, rather than the Eastern concepts of ego dissolution and unity with the Divine Creator. 

    This “Romantic misunderstanding” of Eastern philosophy, as Eliot termed it, is indeed on full display in this poem, showcasing both the brilliance of Yeats’ poetic vision and the cultural limitations that shaped his interpretation of Eastern thought.

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  • William Butler Yeats’ “The Fisherman”

    William Butler Yeats’ “The Fisherman”

    The speaker in William Butler Yeats’ “The Fisherman” is dramatically promoting a style of poetry that will become and remain meaningful to and beloved by the common folk.

    Introduction with Text of “The Fisherman”

    William Butler Yeats’ poem “The Fisherman” appears in the poet’s The Wild Swans at Coole, which was brought out in 1919. The poet’s collection features many of his most widely anthologized poems.

    In “The Fisherman,” Yeats has created a speaker who is voicing a call for a genuine school of art for the common folk, an art that dramatizes the beauty and truth inherent in all great art. 

    The speaker is also decrying the cultural suicide being perpetrated by charlatans in art as well as their cohorts who are power-hungry politicians.  He thus reveals contempt for fakes and frauds, while promoting an ideal that he strongly believes should be steering art and the cultural life of the nation.

    Every nation throughout history has suffered from these same issues, as toppling governments and bloody wars testify.  The poets have often spoken up, calling out names and insisting on reforms.  

    Despite the fact that poetry’s first function arises from personal experience, political controversy often intrudes into the realm of the personal and that is when poets are compelled to use their platform for activism.

    Care must be taken, however, that the poet not become a brazen tool for propaganda. As an accomplished world poet and former Irish senator [1], Yeats possessed the acumen to broach issues of art, poetry, culture, and politics.

    The former politician and literary Nobel Laureate [2] boasts numerous works that address culture and politics: “The Fisherman” remains one of the most colorful and culturally significant poems of the era.

    The Fisherman

    Although I can see him still,
    The freckled man who goes
    To a grey place on a hill
    In grey Connemara clothes
    At dawn to cast his flies,
    It’s long since I began
    To call up to the eyes
    This wise and simple man.
    All day I’d looked in the face
    What I had hoped ’twould be
    To write for my own race  
    And the reality;  
    The living men that I hate,
    The dead man that I loved,
    The craven man in his seat,
    The insolent unreproved,
    And no knave brought to book  
    Who has won a drunken cheer,  
    The witty man and his joke
    Aimed at the commonest ear,
    The clever man who cries
    The catch-cries of the clown,
    The beating down of the wise
    And great Art beaten down.

    Maybe a twelvemonth since
    Suddenly I began,  
    In scorn of this audience,  
    Imagining a man
    And his sun-freckled face,  
    And grey Connemara cloth,
    Climbing up to a place  
    Where stone is dark under froth,
    And the down turn of his wrist
    When the flies drop in the stream:
    A man who does not exist,
    A man who is but a dream;
    And cried, “Before I am old
    I shall have written him one
    Poem maybe as cold
    And passionate as the dawn.”

    Reading of “The Fisherman”

    Commentary on “The Fisherman”

    The speaker in William Butler Yeats’ poem is heralding a style of poetry that will be beloved by the common folk.  He makes his contempt for charlatans known. He encourages the ideals that he believes must guide culture and art.  Yeats was a promoter of the style of art that he thought was closest to the hearts and minds of the Irish.

    First Movement:  Recalling an Admired Man

    Although I can see him still,
    The freckled man who goes
    To a grey place on a hill
    In grey Connemara clothes
    At dawn to cast his flies,
    It’s long since I began
    To call up to the eyes
    This wise and simple man.

    The speaker appears to be remembering a special man whom he has respected: “[t]he freckled man” wearing “Connemara clothes.”  This man has been in the habit of fishing at a “gray place on a hill.”  

    The speaker implies that in his mind’s eye, he can still perceive the man. And it may also be that the speaker literally meets the man occasionally in the village. However,  the speaker has not as of late mused upon the man.

    The speaker admires the man’s simple ways.  He assumes that the man is “wise and simple.”  The speaker then continues to cogitate upon those very same qualities as he continues his message.

    The speaker entertains a deep desire to praise the virtues of simplicity and wisdom.  He has observed those qualities in the folks who are doing ordinary, simple everyday tasks.

    Second Movement:  Researching History

    All day I’d looked in the face
    What I had hoped ’twould be
    To write for my own race  
    And the reality;  
    The living men that I hate,
    The dead man that I loved,
    The craven man in his seat,
    The insolent unreproved,

    The speaker has determined that he will make a plan to write for his own people, including the real experiences they all undergo.  With the plan in mind, he has begun to research the history of his nation and its people.  The speaker asserts that he hopes to reveal the reality of the lived experience of his fellow citizens. 

     Such a reality should well acquit itself and at the same time demonstrate and dramatize the exact truths that future generations will be likely to undergo.The speaker offers a catalogue of qualities that the men who make up the current political landscape have put on display.  

    Some of those men will be the recipients of his ire.  He brazenly states that there are living men whom he hates.  He then contrasts that negative emotion with its opposite by emphasizing that there is as well the “dead man that [he] loved.” 

    The speaker continues in his enflamed hatred by asserting that the “craven” exist while the “insolent” remain unrestricted in their perfidy. The speaker believes that by contrasting good and evil, he can demonstrate the efficacy of the arrival of a steady virtue upon which to build a better art and poetry that can represent Irish culture more faithfully and honestly.

    Third Movement:  The Guilty Avoiding Justice

    And no knave brought to book  
    Who has won a drunken cheer,  
    The witty man and his joke
    Aimed at the commonest ear,
    The clever man who cries
    The catch-cries of the clown,
    The beating down of the wise
    And great Art beaten down.

    The speaker continues referring to the rogues and knaves, who have thus far evaded justice though guilty. The speaker loathes those frauds who have “won a drunken cheer,” even as they have remained undeserving of celebrity and honor.  

    The speaker makes it clear that there is a sector of despicable characters who damage, cheapen, and pile shame on the culture.   The speaker accuses such unscrupulous scoundrels of attempting to destroy the art of the nation. 

    They, in effect, denigrate “the wise” as they dismantle the “great Art” that they have inherited.  The speaker grieves that these killers of culture have succeeded in their perfidy. Thus, he is calling attention to their misdeeds. He is proposing a change in focus in order to improve values.  He is not suggesting censorship of the charlatans.

    Fourth Movement:  Cultural Assassins

    Maybe a twelvemonth since
    Suddenly I began,  
    In scorn of this audience,  
    Imagining a man
    And his sun-freckled face,  
    And grey Connemara cloth,
    Climbing up to a place  
    Where stone is dark under froth,

    The speaker then reports that for a while he has been incubating the idea of creating an uncomplicated, “sun-freckled face”—the man in “Connemara cloth.”   For his effort, he has thus far received only “scorn” from the ilk of those culture killers and unscrupulous reprobates.

    Nevertheless, the speaker has been pressing on, striving to envision a simple fisherman, who “climb[s] up to a place / Where stone is dark with froth,” a natural place that continues to be pristine and still remains alluring.

    The speaker is crafting a symbolic being whom he can describe and on whom he can bestow the qualities that he deems must become and remain an important part of the natural art, belonging to the people of his environs.

    Fifth Movement:  The Importance of Simplicity

    And the down turn of his wrist
    When the flies drop in the stream:
    A man who does not exist,
    A man who is but a dream;
    And cried, “Before I am old
    I shall have written him one
    Poem maybe as cold
    And passionate as the dawn.”

    The speaker visualizes the fisherman’s wrist movement as the man casts his line into the water. He admits that this man does not yet exist, because  he is still “but a dream.”  The speaker’s keen sensibility is strong enough to bring to life such a simple, rustic character.  He is urged then to take all pains to bring such a character to life.

    Thus, while the poet is still young enough to use his God-given imagination, he vows to take on the task of writing this fisherman into existence and to compose for the man a poem “as cold / And passionate as the dawn.”   The speaker continues to muse on simplicity.  He passionately desires to create a new ideal that will produce meaningful, original, dramatic poetry.

    He insists that that new poetry must be able to speak with genuine originality and that it thus should become a harbinger of the beginning of a new era in art of poetry. The speaker hopes to accomplish all of this despite the wrong-headedness and power-grabbing of too many of the political phonies—and despite the fraudulent deceivers whose selfishness is spreading the destruction of their own culture.

    Sources

    [1]  Editors. “William Butler Yeats.” Poetry Foundation.  Accessed October 3, 2023.

    [2]  Daniel Mulhall. “W.B. Yeats and the Ireland of his time.” Embassy of Ireland.  Accessed October 3, 2023.

  • William Butler Yeats’ “The Indian upon God”

    Image 1:  Williams Butler Yeats – Chicago History Museum

    William Butler Yeats’ “The Indian upon God”

    Alluding to the Genesis concept of the image of God, the speaker parallels the Eastern spiritual tradition of pantheism to dramatize the full implication of that venerable concept.

    Introduction with Text of “The Indian upon God”

    William Butler Yeats’ poem “The Indian upon God” is displayed in ten riming couplets.   The theme of the poem dramatizes the biblical concept that God made man in His own image: 

    So God created man in his own image, in the image of God created he him; male and female created he them… (King James Version, Genesis 1:27).

    The full implication of this fascinating dictum is that God, in fact, created all of creation after His own image.   And while—because of the influence of postmodernism—that concept often receives short shrift in Western art culture, Eastern culture has long embraced it fully.

    William Butler Yeats became fascinated by Eastern philosophy and religion.  And while Yeats also fell victim to the “romantic misunderstanding” of many of the concepts pointed out by T. S. Eliot, Yeats still managed to dramatize certain ideas appropriately.

    This poem “The Indian upon God” remains one of his most accurate offerings from among the pieces that he based upon his take on Eastern philosophy.

    The Indian upon God

    I passed along the water’s edge below the humid trees,
    My spirit rocked in evening light, the rushes round my knees,
    My spirit rocked in sleep and sighs; and saw the moorfowl pace
    All dripping on a grassy slope, and saw them cease to chase
    Each other round in circles, and heard the eldest speak:
    Who holds the world between His bill and made us strong or weak
    Is an undying moorfowl, and He lives beyond the sky.
    The rains are from His dripping wing, the moonbeams from His eye.
    I passed a little further on and heard a lotus talk: 
    Who made the world and ruleth it, He hangeth on a stalk,
    For I am in His image made, and all this tinkling tide
    Is but a sliding drop of rain between His petals wide.
    A little way within the gloom a roebuck raised his eyes
    Brimful of starlight, and he said: The Stamper of the Skies,  
    He is a gentle roebuck; for how else, I pray, could He
    Conceive a thing so sad and soft, a gentle thing like me?
    I passed a little further on and heard a peacock say:
    Who made the grass and made the worms and made my feathers gay,
    He is a monstrous peacock, and He waveth all the night      
    His languid tail above us, lit with myriad spots of light.   

    Commentary on “The Indian upon God”

    The speaker is paralleling the Eastern spiritual tradition of pantheism to dramatize the full impact of that venerable concept presented in Genesis:  creation—including  all created beings along with humankind—is created in the image of the Creator (God).

    Image 2:   Moorfowl Bird Guides

    First Movement:  The Moorfowl

    I passed along the water’s edge below the humid trees,
    My spirit rocked in evening light, the rushes round my knees,
    My spirit rocked in sleep and sighs; and saw the moorfowl pace
    All dripping on a grassy slope, and saw them cease to chase
    Each other round in circles, and heard the eldest speak:
    Who holds the world between His bill and made us strong or weak
    Is an undying moorfowl, and He lives beyond the sky.
    The rains are from His dripping wing, the moonbeams from His eye. 

    The speaker of the poem opens his musings by placing himself alongside a body of water as he walks under trees that he senses to have been moistened likely by a recent rain. In a meditative mood, he muses on the spiritual atmosphere of his locus.  

    He spies some birds pacing about and begins to consider how the moorfowl would elucidate his existence if he could do so in words.  He continues musing on the birds as they are leisurely moving about.

    Finally, the speaker, in his mind’s ear, imagines that the oldest bird begins to declaim about his existence.  That discourse is roughly paraphrased by the following:  

    my Maker is an immortal moorfowl, Who has created all the world, and He remains hidden behind His skyey perch from where He sends the rains and lights His creation with “His eye.”

    The moorfowl visualizes his Creator as a glorious version of himself.  His Creator possesses a “bill” and a “wing,” and the rains drop from His wings, while the moonbeams shoot from His eye.

    Image 3 Lotus – Photo by Ron Grimes

    Second Movement:  Lotus

    I passed a little further on and heard a lotus talk: 
    Who made the world and ruleth it, He hangeth on a stalk,
    For I am in His image made, and all this tinkling tide
    Is but a sliding drop of rain between His petals wide. 

    The speaker then moves on a short distance and begins his musing on what a lotus might say in explaining his origin: thus, the lotus also holds forth about his Creator:  

    my Maker and the ruler of the world “hang[s] on a stalk.”  I am made in His image, and this rain He is sending from between His enormous petals

    The lotus also describes his Creator as an embellished version of himself.  His Creator “hangeth on a stalk,” just as the lotus flower does, and his Maker also causes the rain to fall.  

    And similar to the moorfowl’s conception that the rain drips from the Supreme Moorfowl’s wings, the lotus’ Creator lets the rain “slide” between His petals. 

    Image 4: Roebuck – iStock

    Third Movement: Roebuck

    A little way within the gloom a roebuck raised his eyes
    Brimful of starlight, and he said: The Stamper of the Skies,  
    He is a gentle roebuck; for how else, I pray, could He
    Conceive a thing so sad and soft, a gentle thing like me? 

    The speaker continues on and crafts the fulmination of a roebuck, whose eyes were full of “starlight,” as he, too, explains his creative origin, labeling his Maker, “The Stamper of the Skies“:

    the creator of the world is a tender and mild roebuck, who else could have thought to fashion such a being as myself who remains so sorrowful yet so softly gentle?

    The roebuck concludes that his Creator has to be like himself in order to be able to fashion his unique characteristics of sadness, softness, and gentleness.  It is noteworthy that the roebuck makes his claim through a rhetorical question, which appears to humble his claim yet at the same time gives it particular emphasis.

    Image 5: Peacock – Animal Wildlife

    Fourth Movement:  Peacock

    I passed a little further on and heard a peacock say:
    Who made the grass and made the worms and made my feathers gay,
    He is a monstrous peacock, and He waveth all the night      
    His languid tail above us, lit with myriad spots of light. 

    The speaker moves farther along, and listening to a peacock, he muses that the bird would describe his origin as the following: 

    I was created by a huge peacock who also created all vegetation and all other animals.  My Maker moves His bright features through the sky, from where He sends to us the light from the stars.

    Again, the animal describes his Creator in terms of his own characteristics. The peacock, however, verges on the boastful with his description, claiming that the “monstrous peacock,” or more glorious version of himself, also made the grass and worms.  

    The peacock implies that his Creator has made these creatures for the sake of the peacock.  And the peacock also likens his beautiful tail feathers to stars hanging in the skies.

    Image 6: Divine Mother  – Self-Realization Fellowship

    Creation: Image of the Divine

    The philosophy portrayed in William Butler Yeats’ poem is pantheism, the concept that God is everything.  If man (humankind) correctly discerns that God created human beings in His image, then God, in fact, created everything else that exists in His image.  

    If all things are reflections of one Creator, then each thing created can rightly aver that it is made in the image of the Divine. Pantheism is also logically monotheism:  all of creation taken together is one entity.  

    The monotheistic religions of empirical reality—as opposed to that of the  mythological Greek and Roman pantheon of gods—all expound the nature of God as a trinity—one being expressing in three aspects.  For example, in Hinduism the trinity is Sat-Tat-Aum (also expressed as Sat-Chit-Ananda).  The Christian trinity is expressed a Father-Son-Holy Spirit.

    All of the five major world religions—Hinduism, Buddhism, Judaism, Christianity, and Islam—are monotheistic.  Hinduism is often mistakenly referred to a a polytheistic religion by commentators who confuse the names for the various aspects of God as separate gods. 

    Capitalizing Pronouns Referring to God

    The King Jame Version of the Holy Bible does not capitalize the pronouns referring to God; that custom is a 19th century invention.   However, I usually capitalize pronouns referring to the Deity to make clear that such references are, in fact, referring to God.   In this commentary,  I have capitalized the pronouns primarily to make clear that the various individuals are referring to their Maker or God.

  • Gerard Manley Hopkins’ “My own heart let me more have pity on; let”

    Image: Gerard Manley Hopkins – National Portrait Gallery, London

    Gerard Manley Hopkins’ “My own heart let me more have pity on; let”

    The speaker in this sonnet examines his inward struggle, through which he has learned mercy toward the self (soul) while undergoing heavy, sustained spiritual pressure.  My personal issue with this pressure assures me that Father Hopkins well understood its vicissitudes as well as its rewards.

    Introduction and Text of “My own heart let me more have pity on; let”

    In this final terrible sonnet, the speaker turns inward to speak directly to his own heart; he does so with urgency but restraint. The sonnet foregrounds his own personal moral and spiritual reckoning.  In that accounting, he has found that self-pity is not indulgence but instead it is simply charity rightly ordered and affirmed. 

    The poetic language pushes as well as it knots itself into compression.  It portrays the pressure exerted on a mind that has been tormented to the point of exhaustion.  Thus, now that exhausted mind must seek a genuine place to rest.

    Readers may note that Father Hopkins has separated  both the octave and the sestet into two quatrains in the octave and two tercets in the sestet.  This kind of separation adds to the dramatic effect that each stanza represents.  

    The sonnet could be interpreted as consisting of four movements; however, for consistency of preserving the Petrarchan model, I have kept them grouped in my commentary as simply octave and sestet.

    My own heart let me more have pity on; let

    My own heart let me more have pity on; let
    Me live to my sad self hereafter kind,
    Charitable; not live this tormented mind
    With this tormented mind tormenting yet.

    I cast for comfort I can no more get
    By groping round my comfortless, than blind
    Eyes in their dark can day or thirst can find
    Thirst’s all-in-all in all a world of wet.

    Soul, self; come, poor Jackself, I do advise
    You, jaded, lét be; call off thoughts awhile
    Elsewhere; leave comfort root-room; let joy size

    At God knows when to God knows what; whose smile
    ‘S not wrung, see you; unforeseen times rather—as skies
    Betweenpie mountains—lights a lovely mile.

    Reading

    Commentary on “My own heart let me more have pity on; let”

    The sonnet dramatizes four movements, as mentioned above,  from self-laceration to self-mercy, which has led to the discovery of hope—not by force of harsh discipline but by soft, divinely inspired release.

    Octave: “My own heart let me more have pity on; let”

    My own heart let me more have pity on; let
    Me live to my sad self hereafter kind,
    Charitable; not live this tormented mind
    With this tormented mind tormenting yet.

    I cast for comfort I can no more get
    By groping round my comfortless, than blind
    Eyes in their dark can day or thirst can find
    Thirst’s all-in-all in all a world of wet.

    The speaker begins the octave by offering a plea that is, however, also a command.  He is directly addressing his own heart as both somewhat metaphorically as both judge and defendant. The line “Let me more have pity on” signals a deliberate act of will: pity must be allowed to exist and work its power, not merely be passively felt. 

    The speaker then labels his accustomed cruelty toward himself: he has become a “tormented mind” that compounds his suffering by continually rehearsing it. The repetition of “tormented” mimics the cycle he is condemning; his has become a mind that had kept turning upon itself without pause to rest. 

    Charity here does not engage merely for sentimental purposes; it remains a necessary,  ethical discipline, employing the discipline to refuse to continually inflict self-harm, even under the guise of rigor.

    The second quatrain moves quite quickly but assertively, and then it intensifies the uselessness of the same old, ordinary search for simple, quiet comfort. Casting “for comfort” metaphorically creates the two leisure activities of  fishing and gambling. Both of these activities involve chance, and uncertainty often hands over nothing to the player after plunging much effort into them. 

    The “blind/Eyes” image sharpens the deadlock: Blind eyes cannot see daylight simply by groping, while thirst cannot be slaked by being dunked in water that is not fit to drink.  Again, the poet has been performing his duty of giving back to the reader his own experience.  And the mark of a great poet is that he does so completely in a natural, believable voice, as Father Hopkins does here.

    The paradox of “thirst’s all-in-all in all a world of wet” completely and earnestly captures spiritual barrenness as it spirits about in a world of abundance, where remedies for maladies surround the suffering soul yet remain remote and unreachable. 

    The octave thus has closed every false door. The  activities of exerting much effort, of analyzing each sorrow’s parts, and then groping toward some restless search have only deepened the dryness of the  issue. The speaker’s understanding and honesty now clear the way for a genuine rejoinder that does not hang on mastery or grasping.

    The minds and hearts of all humanity remain in search of such genuineness, especially as it contemplates it own mortality.  The winds of change may threaten the material world, but the astral and causal levels of being hold promises that humanity keeps deep in its bosom.

    Sestet: “Soul, self; come, poor Jackself, I do advise”

    Soul, self; come, poor Jackself, I do advise
    You, jaded, lét be; call off thoughts awhile
    Elsewhere; leave comfort root-room; let joy size

    At God knows when to God knows what; whose smile
    ‘S not wrung, see you; unforeseen times rather—as skies
    Betweenpie mountains—lights a lovely mile.

    The speaker in the sestet now is able to turn advice into consolation, as he discovers joy; and this joy was not seized by groping fingers but granted by steady grace, which arrived without exertion and through patience.

    In the sestet, the direct address broadens as the “Soul, self” bring together the divided mind/heart into a single event. The affectionate diminutive “Jackself” calms the weather of judgment, while weariness is acknowledged but without contempt. 

    The advice remains as simple as it is radical—“let be.” Thought itself must be allowed to rest “awhile,” not disappeared but its temperature lowered. The speaker suggests a turning “elsewhere,” away from the former obsessive peer into inwardness, leaving “comfort root-room.” Comfort cannot be bludgeoned at the root, an joy must be afforded a place to increase.

    The speaker then suspends time as well as outcome, when he asserts “At God knows when to God knows what.” This line refuses acts that schedule or  measure. It finds that hope exists only under divine discretion. The smile then appears quite naturally because it is “not wrung”; it is not forced by circumstances , neither is it caught up by the will. Instead, this divine joy may come like a flash in “unforeseen times,” and the speaker compares that flash colorfully to the sudden light that appears between mountains. 

    This image then significantly gives honor to the obstruction without dragging in the issue of despair: the mountains still remain mountains, but between them, a mile or so  has been wonderfully lighted.   The sonnet concludes with a vista—limited, lovely, and sufficient. Mercy toward the self has become the condition for perceiving the divine light, for experiencing joy, and it is patience that remains the means by which that blessed condition endures.

  • Gerard Manley Hopkins’ “Patience, hard thing! the hard thing but to pray”

    Image: Gerard Manley Hopkins – Inspirational Jesuits

    Gerard Manley Hopkins’ “Patience, hard thing! the hard thing but to pray”

    This sonnet is counted as one of Father Hopkins’ six “terrible sonnets.”

    Introduction and Text of “Patience, hard thing! the hard thing but to pray”

    The speaker in Father Hopkins’ “Patience, hard thing! the hard thing but to pray” explores searchingly the nature of  spiritual endurance. He is focusing on patience not as a soft virtue but as a challenging and difficult discipline, which oftentimes scars the pride, while exhausting the will.  

    But those actions still reflect and align with divine will and action. As he usually does, this speaker reveals the hard discipline of God remains always for the betterment of humankind.  As human beings, we all search for—or at least wish for—our own betterment.

    As a Jesuit priest, Father Hopkins made it his mission to seek divine guidance, and unlike us non-priestly poets, he focused primarily on religious and spiritual issues that affected him deeply.

    Patience, hard thing! the hard thing but to pray

    Patience, hard thing! the hard thing but to pray,
    But bid for, Patience is! Patience who asks
    Wants war, wants wounds; weary his times, his tasks;
    To do without, take tosses, and obey.
    Rare patience roots in these, and, these away,
    Nowhere. Natural heart’s ivy, Patience masks
    Our ruins of wrecked past purpose. There she basks
    Purple eyes and seas of liquid leaves all day.

    We hear our hearts grate on themselves: it kills
    To bruise them dearer. Yet the rebellious wills
    Of us we do bid God bend to him even so.
    And where is he who more and more distils
    Delicious kindness? – He is patient. Patience fills
    His crisp combs, and that comes those ways we know.

    Reading

    Commentary on “Patience, hard thing! the hard thing but to pray”

    As human beings, we learn early that patience is an important personal quality, but the speaker in this sonnet is revealing his inner turmoil as an  argument against  which he confronts resistance even as he refuses to decry the virtue that seems to be resisting him.   He treats the virtue of patience in a realistic manner—not with sentimentality.  He asserts that patience is both vitally necessary as well as deeply painful.

    The humanity of his cries shows us that as we strive and struggle, all of humanity has done so.  Father Hopkins lived in the 19th century—two centuries earlier than our own, and yet his struggles are our struggles.

    Octave: “Patience, hard thing! the hard thing but to pray”

    The speaker begins the octave with an effusive cry—no calm reflection here!  He invokes “patience” immediately and pairs it with prayer; they are both difficult things to approach and accomplish.  We often cry for what we seem to lack, even in the 21st century.

    He knows that genuine prayer requires patience, and it is a kind of patience that the heart and mind naturally resist in a fallen world.   The sharpness of his complaint is emphasized through repetition.

    He then seems to create a stunning paradox in that patience is difficult, but it is also “bid for.” The speaker easily confesses that patience is not only endured, but it is sought and asked for, even though that asking heralds conflict. 

    Personified as a female figure who is doing the asking, Patience paradoxically “wants war, wants wounds,” and those qualities expose that there is a cost in acquiring her. She commands that one live a life without ease, which includes doing without things one might need for comfort, receiving blows that stun and hurt, all the while remaining obedient.  Dame Patience then requires obedience under pressure with the willingness to accept pain, trials, and tribulations that seem arbitrary instead of well-deserved.

    The speaker asserts that that kind of patience remains rare, even fragile. It takes hold only under these catastrophic conditions; for if they are removed them, there is not patience within existence.  This insistence blows up the notion that patience can be a decorative virtue experienced in comfort; instead, patience makes it appearance only in deprivation, instability, and any other calamity. 

    Still through all this mayhem, the speaker refuses to qualify her as infertile. Through a striking shift in tone and assurance,  patience then transforms into “Natural heart’s ivy” —a living being, covering “our ruins of wrecked past purpose.” We chafe under ruined purposes as we try to build a better world even in current times.

    With that ivy image, the speaker is acknowledging that failure and collapse within the self, which include all past intentions are broken and defeated. Patience, however, does not convert them; she merely masks them by covering all that damage with new growth.

    The final lines of the octave seems to complicate the struggle. Patience is basking in colorful accoutrements, yet luxuriant color and fluidity suggest abundance, as well as beauty, even though it is a beauty that grows over wreckage. 

    The speaker thus remains well aware that such patience beautifies what has been lost without denying the loss itself. The octave leaves the speaker’s fragility suspended between intense pain and strange fertility—between war and ivy.

    Sestet: “We hear our hearts grate on themselves: it kills”

    In the sestet, the speaker turns inward with even greater urgency. He hears that “our hearts grate on themselves”; this image is harsh and mechanical, suggesting inner resistance. And patience can be understood as not only difficult, but it is also possibly lethal, in that “it kills / To bruise them dearer.” 

    That claim is intimating that the heart continues to hang onto its own wounds because it would rather retain the familiar pain than to face the adversity made possible by surrender. 

    Especially within the confines of such thinking,  the speaker has to surrender to an subtle prayer: “the rebellious wills / Of us we do bid God bend to him.” Even as the will resists God, it, at the same time, must supplicate to God to transcend its resistance.  An exotic tension unfolds the divided mind/soul as it prays. It remains faithful but still defiant.

    The main focus that has infused itself throughout the entire sonnet comes into sharp relief in the form of the question “where is the goodness that justifies all of this misery and suffering?”  A question to haunts our current civilization as surely as it did two centuries ago!

     The speaker responds not with an argumentative abstract notion, but with a person. “He is patient.” God’s kindness can come only slowly, similar to a liquid being “distilled,” drop by drop, rather than being poured out all at once.  As science has shown us certain processes, poetry shows us the metaphorical value of understanding those processes.

    Patience is not merely a virtue that human beings must learn; it is the basic method of God’s own divine action. The final image of “crisp combs” brings to mind honey made by bees that labor furiously as they produce such sweetness. 

    Patience “fills” them (all of creation’s creatures), and from that fullness comes kindness in “those ways we know,” as it ascends to human experience through evolutionary time rather than temporal spectacle.

    In the sestet, the speaker comes close to showing how to defend one’s heart and mind in the struggle that humanity is engaged in.  He does not provide direct relief from pain or a way to guard against rebellion. 

    But instead, the speaker suggests that the answer can only be understood in terms of what is human and what is divine; thus, human patience can be seen to resemble divine patience.  The pain and suffering experiences by human beings can be converted into the divine stuff that produces sweetness, i.e., kindness.

    The process, of course, is meditation and prayer, along with deep thought and service to humankind and the world at large, in whatever form that service must take—even writing poems, thus, can serve a divine purpose.

    We struggle today as humanity has struggled in the past.  From poets such as Father Hopkins, we can glean the depth of our sorrow but also we can be comforted that there is a light at the end of the tunnel of sad darkness, and we can determine that we will progress toward that light.

  • Gerard Manley Hopkins’ “No worst, there is none. Pitched past pitch of grief”

    Image: Gerard Manley Hopkins – Inspirational Jesuits

    Gerard Manley Hopkins’ “No worst, there is none. Pitched past pitch of grief”

    The third in the group of sonnets widely known as “the terrible sonnets,” this one,“No worst, there is none. Pitched past pitch of grief,” presents a speaker experiencing grief so intense that it feels beyond limit or measure.

    In the octave, suffering overwhelms his body and spirit and leads to urgent appeals for divine comfort. In the sestet, the speaker turns inward, describing his mind as dangerous terrain. The sonnet ends with a grim acknowledgment of mortality and the daily release offered by sleep.

    Introduction and Text of “No worst, there is none. Pitched past pitch of grief”

    Father Hopkins’ “No worst, there is none. Pitched past pitch of grief” is a sonnet that records extreme mental and spiritual suffering. Written in the traditional Petrarchan form, it moves from an octave of mounting anguish to a sestet of reflection and hard-earned recognition. 

    The speaker struggles to express grief that feels limitless and that is unrelieved by faith or prayer. Dense sound patterns and abrupt phrasing mirror the pressure of despair. Rather than offering comfort, the poem confronts pain directly, showing how the mind and soul endure when consolation seems absent.

    No worst, there is none. Pitched past pitch of grief

    No worst, there is none. Pitched past pitch of grief,
    More pangs will, schooled at forepangs, wilder wring.
    Comforter, where, where is your comforting?
    Mary, mother of us, where is your relief?
    My cries heave, herds-long; huddle in a main, a chief-
    Woe, wórld-sorrow; on an áge-old ánvil wínce and síng —
    Then lull, then leave off. Fury had shrieked “No ling-
    Ering! Let me be fell: force I must be brief.”
    O the mind, mind has mountains; cliffs of fall
    Frightful, sheer, no-man-fathomed. Hold them cheap
    May who ne’er hung there. Nor does long our small
    Durance deal with that steep or deep. Here! creep,
    Wretch, under a comfort serves in a whirlwind: all
    Life death does end and each day dies with sleep.

    Reading

    Commentary on “No worst, there is none. Pitched past pitch of grief”

    The sonnet moves from outward cries of anguish to inward examination of mind. The octave presents grief as limitless, cumulative, and shared with the world at large. In the sestet, suffering becomes psychological, depicted as dangerous inner terrain. The poem ends without relief, settling instead on a sober recognition of death and the temporary rest found in sleep.

    Octave: “No worst, there is none. Pitched past pitch of grief”

    No worst, there is none. Pitched past pitch of grief,
    More pangs will, schooled at forepangs, wilder wring.
    Comforter, where, where is your comforting?
    Mary, mother of us, where is your relief?
    My cries heave, herds-long; huddle in a main, a chief-
    Woe, wórld-sorrow; on an áge-old ánvil wínce and síng —
    Then lull, then leave off. Fury had shrieked “No ling-
    Ering! Let me be fell: force I must be brief.”

    The octave opens with a blunt assertion, denying that suffering reaches a final point. Grief, in this view, has no bottom and no boundary. The phrase “pitched past pitch of grief” reinforces this idea by suggesting that pain has gone beyond any scale by which it might be measured. Grief is not merely intense; it has surpassed all known limits.

    In the second line, the speaker explains how pain increases rather than diminishes.  Each new pang learns from the last. Suffering becomes more violent because it has practiced its activity and method. The verb “wring” suggests twisting pressure, as if grief grips and contorts the speaker from within. Pain is physical as well as mental, as the grip tightens.

    The speaker then turns to directly address urgency and confusion. The repetition of “where” emphasizes abandonment rather than disbelief. The speaker still believes in comfort but cannot find it. 

    The following line continues the appeal. The speaker invokes maternal mercy and protection, yet relief does not come. These lines reveal a faith under strain, not a faith rejected, but one tested by silence.

    Next, the speaker describes the sheer force of personal grief. The cries are compared to herds, large and uncontrollable. Individual anguish gathers into a single overwhelming mass. By calling it “world-sorrow,” the speaker enlarges private suffering into something shared by humanity across time. The grief feels ancient, collective, and unavoidable.

    This sorrow plays out “on an age-old anvil,” an image suggesting repeated blows over centuries. The anvil implies endurance and also punishment. On it, the cries “wince and sing.” Pain produces sound, and suffering is shaped into expression. The poem itself becomes the product of this hammering, forged under pressure.

    The octave ends with the sudden emotional recoil. The intensity momentarily subsides, only to be replaced by fury that demands an end: “No lingering!” The speaker feels forced to compress suffering into brevity, not because it is resolved, but because it is unbearable. The octave closes without comfort, suspended between eruption and exhaustion.

    Sestet: “O the mind, mind has mountains; cliffs of fall”

    O the mind, mind has mountains; cliffs of fall
    Frightful, sheer, no-man-fathomed. Hold them cheap
    May who ne’er hung there. Nor does long our small
    Durance deal with that steep or deep. Here! creep,
    Wretch, under a comfort serves in a whirlwind: all
    Life death does end and each day dies with sleep.

    The sestet turns inward, shifting attention from external cries to internal experience. The mind is described as a vast landscape, filled not with beauty but with danger. These “mountains” are steep and unstable, ending in sudden drops. Mental suffering is portrayed as perilous terrain.

    The cliffs are terrifying because they are steep and impossible to measure. Those who have not faced such depths cannot understand them.  The two half lines “Hold them cheap / May who ne’er hung there” conspire to dismisses the judgments of outsiders. Only those who have been suspended over these mental precipices know their true danger.

    The speaker then acknowledges human limitation.  Endurance is described as “small,” easily overwhelmed. Prolonged suffering exceeds what a person can reasonably bear. This admission removes any suggestion of weakness or failure. The problem is not the sufferer but the scale of the suffering.

    At this point, the speaker addresses the self (sou) directly; he recognizes personal vulnerability and degradation. The command to “creep” suggests retreat rather than triumph. Survival, not victory, becomes the goal.

    The comfort that follows is limited and unstable. Any relief comes amid turbulence. There is no calm resolution, only brief shelter within chaos. Comfort exists, but it is fragile and temporary.

    The sonnet ends with a stark conclusion.  Life moves inevitably toward death. Each day rehearses that ending through sleep, which brings both rest and unconsciousness. Sleep offers a small mercy, a pause from suffering, but it also mirrors death itself.

    The sestet does not undo the despair of the octave. Instead, it reframes it. The speaker accepts the limits of endurance and the reality of mortality. The sonnet closes with clarity rather than consolation, acknowledging that while suffering may not be cured, it can, at least, be named and endured one day at a time.

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  • Gerard Manley Hopkins’ “I wake and feel the fell of dark, not day”

    Image: Gerard Manley Hopkins – National Portrait Gallery, London

    Gerard Manley Hopkins’ “I wake and feel the fell of dark, not day”

    The speaker Gerard Manley Hopkins’ “I wake and feel the fell of dark, not day” is confronting spiritual desolation, interior darkness, and the sense of abandonment by God. 

    Awakening into psychological night, the speaker measures time not in hours but in years of suffering. His cries feel unheard, like letters sent to one who lives far away. In the sestet, suffering turns inward as his soul becomes both the source and the punishment of torment.

    Introduction and Text of “I wake and feel the fell of dark, not day”

    This sonnet is the second installment belonging to the group of six poems often called the “terrible sonnets.”  They focus on intense inward struggle in highly compressed language, and they reveal a profound sense of spiritual trial. The speaker is describing an internal condition of darkness that persists even after waking. 

    The poem follows the traditional Petrarchan structure, but the poet displayed the poem on the page separating the octave into two quatrains and the sestet into two tercets. The octave presents the condition of suffering, followed by the sestet which deepens and internalizes that suffering. The language remains quite visceral, yet sacramental and judicial, suggesting punishment and endurance.

    I wake and feel the fell of dark, not day

    I wake and feel the fell of dark, not day.
    What hours, O what black hours we have spent
    This night! what sights you, heart, saw; ways you went!
    And more must, in yet longer light’s delay.

    With witness I speak this. But where I say
    Hours I mean years, mean life. And my lament
    Is cries countless, cries like dead letters sent
    To dearest him that lives alas! away.

    I am gall, I am heartburn. God’s most deep decree
    Bitter would have me taste: my taste was me;
    Bones built in me, flesh filled, blood brimmed the curse.

    Selfyeast of spirit a dull dough sours. I see
    The lost are like this, and their scourge to be
    As I am mine, their sweating selves, but worse.

    Reading

    Commentary on “I wake and feel the fell of dark, not day”

    In the octave, the speaker presents spiritual suffering as prolonged night and unanswered prayer, while the sestet reveals suffering as internalized judgment.

    Octave: “I wake and feel the fell of dark, not day.”

    I wake and feel the fell of dark, not day.
    What hours, O what black hours we have spent
    This night! what sights you, heart, saw; ways you went!
    And more must, in yet longer light’s delay.

    With witness I speak this. But where I say
    Hours I mean years, mean life. And my lament
    Is cries countless, cries like dead letters sent
    To dearest him that lives alas! away.

    The octave opens abruptly: “I wake and feel the fell of dark, not day.” The speaker awakens, yet awakening does not bring light. The word fell suggests something savage, cruel, or deadly, as though darkness itself were an attacking force. 

    Day has failed to arrive, not externally but internally. The speaker’s consciousness remains trapped in night. This darkness is not merely the absence of light but a palpable weight that can be felt.

    The second line intensifies this experience. The repetition emphasizes exhaustion. These hours are not ordinary; they are “black hours,” heavy with dread.   The speaker addresses his own heart directly, asking it to remember what it has seen and where it has wandered, suggesting a night filled with disturbing thoughts, memories, or spiritual visions that cannot be escaped even in sleep.

    The line “And more must, in yet longer light’s delay” extends the suffering into the future. Relief is postponed; light is delayed. The speaker anticipates further endurance without comfort. The octave has thus established a defining theme: suffering continues; the speaker is conscious of the fact that it is also unavoidable.

    In the second quatrain, the speaker asserts his testimony.  He is not exaggerating or indulging emotion; instead, he is claiming authority as one who has endured. Yet immediately, time expands. When he says “hours,” he means “years,” and beyond that, “life.” What began as a single night becomes a metaphor for an entire existence marked by anguish. The darkness is not episodic but continually defining.

    The lament itself takes the form of “cries countless.” These cries are compared to missives sent to a loved one far away.   The metaphor is striking. The speaker believes his cries are addressed to God, “dearest him,” yet they receive no reply. Like letters that never reach their destination, these prayers feel wasted, unheard, and perhaps unopened. God is known to be living, yet distant.

    The emotional force of the octave lies in this tension: the speaker continues to cry out, continues to bear witness, even while believing those cries go unanswered.  The speaker is not revealing disbelief but instead he is demonstrating faith that yet suffers. 

    The speaker holds no compunction to deny God’s existence, a suffering humanity often is wont to do; instead, he suffers under God’s silence. The speaker therefore is expressing despair not as rebellion but as endurance under abandonment. The night continues, the cries continue, and the speaker remains awake within it.

    Sestet: “I am gall, I am heartburn. God’s most deep decree”

    I am gall, I am heartburn. God’s most deep decree
    Bitter would have me taste: my taste was me;
    Bones built in me, flesh filled, blood brimmed the curse.

    Selfyeast of spirit a dull dough sours. I see
    The lost are like this, and their scourge to be
    As I am mine, their sweating selves, but worse.

    The sestet takes a decisive inward turn. Where the octave emphasized time and unanswered cries, the sestet focuses on the body and self as the site of punishment.  The speaker does not merely feel bitterness; he is bitterness. Gall, a bitter substance associated with suffering and poison, suggests spiritual nausea. Heartburn implies a burning from within, a pain generated internally rather than inflicted from without.

    The speaker attributes this condition to “God’s most deep decree.” This suffering is not accidental or random. It is permitted, even ordained. The bitterness is something the speaker must taste, yet the shocking revelation follows: “my taste was me.” The self (soul) becomes both the instrument and the substance of suffering. There is no external punishment necessary; identity itself is the affliction.

    The line “Bones built in me, flesh filled, blood brimmed the curse” intensifies the embodiment of despair.  The curse is not simply symbolic; it saturates the physical body. Bones, flesh, and blood—the fundamental elements of life—are all implicated. Suffering is total, leaving no refuge within the soul. The speaker’s claims suggest a complete inhabitation or incarnation of pain, as though despair has become structural.

    The metaphor of fermentation is created in the line “Selfyeast of spirit a dull dough sours.” Yeast is normally a source of growth and life, but here it produces sourness. The spirit works upon itself destructively. The self generates its own decay. This image reinforces the idea that suffering is self-contained, inescapable, but continuous.

    In the final lines, the speaker broadens his vision.  He recognizes his condition as a foretaste of damnation. The lost are punished not by external flames but by being trapped within themselves. Their scourge is to be “their sweating selves.” The speaker identifies with this fate, acknowledging that he already experiences something like it, though he believes theirs will be worse.

    The sestet ends without consolation. There is no resolution, no light breaking through. Instead, the poem concludes with recognition and endurance. The speaker understands the nature of suffering more clearly, but understanding does not remove it. The sonnet closes in grim clarity rather than hope.

  • Gerard Manley Hopkins’ “To seem the stranger lies my lot, my life”

    Gerard Manley Hopkins – National Portrait Gallery, London

    Gerard Manley Hopkins’ “To seem the stranger lies my lot, my life”

    The speaker in Gerard Manley Hopkins’ sonnet “To seem the stranger lies my lot, my life” explores the sense of spiritual, national, and personal estrangement during years in Ireland.  Written with the same intensity that characterizes Hopkins’ work, the poem dramatizes exile as both an external condition and an inward trial. 

    In the octave, the speaker is focusing on separation from family and his country England, and in the sestet, he turns inward to the silence imposed by his vocation, leaving him isolated yet faithful.

    Introduction and Text of “To seem the stranger lies my lot, my life”

    Father Gerard Manley Hopkins, who was a Jesuit priest as well as a poet, wrote many of his most profound poems during periods of emotional strain and vocational doubt.  He wrote “To seem the stranger lies my lot, my life” in 1889 during his final years in Ireland; he created a speaker in the poem who is reflecting an acute sense of displacement—geographical, familial, and spiritual. 

    Although Father Hopkins remained consistently obedient to his religious calling, he often felt alienated from England, misunderstood by authority, and silenced as a poet. This sonnet, however, reveals not rebellion but suffering endured with disciplined faith, unveiling exile as a severe trial for spiritual testing.

    As the first of the six “terrible sonnets,” “To seem the stranger lies my lot, my life” remains distinctive because its sense of despair is aimed less at abstract spiritual terror and more at everyday human loss—failed relationships, missed vocations, and social estrangement. 

    However, like the others, it offers little comfort and speaks in a raw, urgent voice.  It is unusual in how little it turns to nature or directly to Christ. Instead, it keeps its focus on the speaker’s painful isolation from family, community, and any sense of being useful as a priest.

    To seem the stranger lies my lot, my life

    To seem the stranger lies my lot, my life
    Among strangers. Father and mother dear,
    Brothers and sisters are in Christ not near
    And he my peace my parting, sword and strife.
    England, whose honour O all my heart woos, wife
    To my creating thought, would neither hear
    Me, were I pleading, plead nor do I: I wear-
    y of idle a being but by where wars are rife.

    I am in Ireland now; now I am at a thírd
    Remove. Not but in all removes I can
    Kind love both give and get. Only what word
    Wisest my heart breeds dark heaven’s baffling ban
    Bars or hell’s spell thwarts. This to hoard unheard,
    Heard unheeded, leaves me a lonely began.

    Reading

    Commentary on “To seem the stranger lies my lot, my life”

    Father Hopkins’ sonnet is a meditation on exile and silence. The octave emphasizes outward separation—from family, country, and recognition—while the sestet deepens the conflict by revealing an inward blockage: the poet’s inability to speak or be heard. 

    Octave: “To seem the stranger lies my lot, my life”

    To seem the stranger lies my lot, my life
    Among strangers. Father and mother dear,
    Brothers and sisters are in Christ not near
    And he my peace my parting, sword and strife.
    England, whose honour O all my heart woos, wife
    To my creating thought, would neither hear
    Me, were I pleading, plead nor do I: I wear-
    y of idle a being but by where wars are rife.

    The speaker open the octave with a stark declaration: “To seem the stranger lies my lot, my life.” The phrasing is deliberate and emphatic, with “lot” and “life” placed side by side to suggest that estrangement is not incidental but foundational. The speaker does not merely feel like a stranger; seeming a stranger has become the defining pattern of his existence. The verb “lies” suggests fate or destiny, implying that this condition is imposed rather than chosen.

    The repetition of “stranger” in the second line—“Among strangers”—reinforces the sense of isolation. The speaker is not simply alone; he is surrounded by others from whom he feels fundamentally divided. This alienation is then specified in personal terms: separation from “Father and mother dear” and from “Brothers and sisters.” 

    These lines resonate deeply, as Hopkins had consciously embraced a religious vocation at the cost of ordinary familial intimacy. Yet the phrase “are in Christ not near” reveals a crucial nuance. The separation is not merely geographical or emotional but mediated through faith. His family exists “in Christ,” but spiritual unity does not erase physical absence.

    Line four intensifies the tension through paradox: “And he my peace my parting, sword and strife.” The “he” here refers unmistakably to Christ, echoing Christ’s own words in the Gospel that he came not to bring peace but a sword. 

    Christ is simultaneously the speaker’s source of peace and the cause of painful division.  This line crystallizes the poem’s central conflict: obedience to God has fractured his earthly attachments.

    England emerges next as a figure of longing and betrayal. The speaker personifies the nation as a beloved woman: “England, whose honour O all my heart woos, wife / To my creating thought.” England is not merely homeland; it is the imaginative and cultural source of his poetry. 

    The speaker’s “creating thought” is bound to England’s landscape, language, and traditions. Yet this beloved “wife” refuses to listen. England “would neither hear / Me, were I pleading.” The rejection is imagined even before the plea is made.

    Significantly, the speaker then states, “plead nor do I.” Either Pride, humility, or exhaustion restrains him from petitioning for recognition or return. The enjambment underscores weariness: “I wear- / y of idle a being but by where wars are rife.” The broken word “weary” visually enacts fatigue. 

    The speaker feels useless, idle, unless he is placed where conflict exists. The “wars” here may be literal—cultural and political unrest in Ireland—or spiritual, referring to inner trials. Either way, the octave closes with a man who sees struggle as the only justification for his continued existence.

    Throughout the octave, the speaker’s syntax becomes knotted and his clauses have become compressed. This density mirrors his emotional burden. There is no lyric ease, no pastoral consolation. Instead, the octave establishes exile as a lived reality—accepted but not softened.

    Sestet: “I am in Ireland now; now I am at a thírd”

    I am in Ireland now; now I am at a thírd
    Remove. Not but in all removes I can
    Kind love both give and get. Only what word
    Wisest my heart breeds dark heaven’s baffling ban
    Bars or hell’s spell thwarts. This to hoard unheard,
    Heard unheeded, leaves me a lonely began.

    The sestet shifts from the general condition of estrangement to a precise location: “I am in Ireland now.” The repetition of “now” emphasizes immediacy and finality. Ireland is not a temporary assignment but a present, enduring state. 

    The speaker then deepens the sense of displacement by calling this “a thírd / Remove.” The word “remove” suggests not travel but distance layered upon distance—England removed from family, and Ireland removed yet again from England.

    (Note the acute accent mark over the “i” in third:  Hopkins often placed accent marks to indicate a stress that might be passed over in a quick reading.  He wanted to assure that his sprung rhythm received its full impact.)

    The speaker then immediately qualifies this isolation: “Not but in all removes I can / Kind love both give and get.” Despite exile, he affirms the possibility of charity. This assertion is a theologically critical.

    Love is not extinguished by displacement; grace operates even in separation. The line resists self-pity and aligns the speaker’s world view with Jesuit discipline, which demands adaptability and service wherever one is sent.

    However, the speaker’s deepest anguish follows:  “Only what word / Wisest my heart breeds dark heaven’s baffling ban / Bars or hell’s spell thwarts.” Here the speaker turns inward, focusing not on where he is but on what he cannot do. His “wisest” words—his poetry—are blocked. 

    Heaven itself seems to be imposing a “ban,” a prohibition that frustrates expression. The phrase “dark heaven” is especially striking. Heaven, normally associated with clarity and illumination, becomes obscure and baffling.  The alternative force is equally terrifying: “hell’s spell.” Whether divine silence or demonic interference, the result is the same—his words are thwarted. 

    This line reveals one of the most painful aspects of the poet’s late life: the sense that his poetic gift, given by God, is simultaneously withheld by God. Silence becomes both command and punishment.

    The final couplet intensifies the tragedy: “This to hoard unheard, / Heard unheeded, leaves me a lonely began.” The speaker is forced to “hoard” his words, storing them without release. Even when heard, they are “unheeded.” 

    The repetition emphasizes futility. The phrase “a lonely began” is deliberately and strangely ungrammatical. “Began” suggests something unfinished, a life or vocation that never reached fulfillment.  The speaker is not calling himself a failure, but he is implying that he feel incomplete.

    Yet even here, the speaker sees despair as part of his discipline. He is not accusing God; he is only lamenting his lot.  The speaker conclude his revelation with witness not rebellion.  The speaker is recording his condition faithfully; he trusts that meaning may lie well beyond his own understanding. Although the loneliness is real, he can bear it through obedience.

    In the sestet, then, exile becomes interiorized. The outer fact of Ireland gives way to the inner trial of silence.  The speaker’s greatest suffering is not being far from England but being cut off from utterance. 

    For this speaker, this wound is the deepest. Yet the very existence of the poem contradicts the ban it describes. In writing this sonnet, the poet speaks from within silence, transforming isolation into testimony.

    Taken together, the octave and sestet reveal a soul suspended between fidelity and desolation. “To seem the stranger lies my lot, my life” is not a cry for rescue but a record of endurance. 

    The speaker/poet accepts exile as part of his vocation, even when it costs him voice, recognition, and comfort. The sonnet stands as one of his most austere achievements—a poem that does not resolve suffering but sanctifies it through truthful speech.

  • Gerard Manley Hopkins’ “The Habit of Perfection”

    Image: Gerard Manley Hopkins – Inspirational Jesuits

    Gerard Manley Hopkins’ “The Habit of Perfection”

    Father Gerard Manley Hopkins’ poem “The Habit of Perfection” dramatizes the importance of silencing and stilling each of the five senses in order to advance in the spiritual realm.

    Introduction with Text of “The Habit of Perfection”

    The title “The Habit of Perfection” of Gerard Manley Hopkins’ poem features a pun on the term “habit.” As a monk, the poet had accepted the garb of the monastic, sometimes called a habit. Of course, the ordinary meaning of common routine also functions fully.

    About the importance of silence, Paramahansa Yogananda has averred, “What joy awaits discovery in the silence behind the portals of your mind no human tongue can tell” (Spiritual Diary).

    Jesuit Priest Gerard Manley Hopkins concurs with the Indian guru’s claim. Father Hopkins’ poem dramatizes the bliss of silence in seven rimed quatrains, each with the rime scheme, ABAB, featuring his famous sprung rhythm and inscape techniques.  The devotee/speaker commands each of his senses to cease their normal functioning, in order that his soul may meditate in holy silence and commune with the Divine.

    The Habit of Perfection

    Elected Silence, sing to me
    And beat upon my whorlèd ear,
    Pipe me to pastures still and be
    The music that I care to hear.

    Shape nothing, lips; be lovely-dumb:
    It is the shut, the curfew sent
    From there where all surrenders come
    Which only makes you eloquent.

    Be shellèd, eyes, with double dark
    And find the uncreated light:
    This ruck and reel which you remark
    Coils, keeps, and teases simple sight.

    Palate, the hutch of tasty lust,
    Desire not to be rinsed with wine:
    The can must be so sweet, the crust
    So fresh that come in fasts divine!

    Nostrils, your careless breath that spend
    Upon the stir and keep of pride,
    What relish shall the censers send
    Along the sanctuary side!

    O feel-of-primrose hands, O feet
    That want the yield of plushy sward,
    But you shall walk the golden street
    And you unhouse and house the Lord.

    And, Poverty, be thou the bride
    And now the marriage feast begun,
    And lily-coloured clothes provide
    Your spouse not laboured-at nor spun.

    Reading

    Commentary on “The Habit of Perfection”

    Father Hopkins’ poem “The Habit of Perfection” dramatizes the importance of silencing and stilling each of the five senses in order to advance spiritually to experience union with the Divine Reality.

    First Quatrain: Devotee of the Spiritual Path

    Elected Silence, sing to me
    And beat upon my whorlèd ear,
    Pipe me to pastures still and be
    The music that I care to hear.

    The speaker reveals himself to be a devotee on the spiritual path, as he converses with “Elected Silence.” The devotee chooses silence as the place where inner awareness starts, remembering the biblical injunction, “Be still, and know that I am God” (Psalm 46:10 King James Version).

    The speaker metaphorically likens his Elected Silence to music, capable of singing to him and beating upon his eardrum.  This silence “pipe[s him] to pastures” in the mind which he wants to still. He, therefore, asks silence to be “the music that [he cares] to hear.”

    Second Quatrain:  Commanding the Senses

    Shape nothing, lips; be lovely-dumb:
    It is the shut, the curfew sent
    From there where all surrenders come
    Which only makes you eloquent.

    As an adjunct to the auditory sense, speaking or moving the lips must cease as well as catching sounds with the ear; thus, the speaker bids his lips to remain “lovely-dumb.”  He tells his lips to form no sounds, stressing that the eloquent speech of the devotee is in his surrender to the Divine. The devotee must remain silent in order to hear the voice of Divinity.

    Third Quatrain:   Calming the Sense of Sight

    Be shellèd, eyes, with double dark
    And find the uncreated light:
    This ruck and reel which you remark
    Coils, keeps, and teases simple sight.

    The speaker then bids his eyes remain closed. He commands them to seek “double dark” beyond which they can encounter the “uncreated light.” In their seeking, the eyes may experience flashes of unearthly light that “[c]oils, keeps, and teases simple sight.”  But the devotee’s goal is to become so calm that the physical eyes cease to catch mere glimpses, while the single spiritual eye becomes operational.

    Fourth Quatrain:   Calming the Sense of Taste

    Palate, the hutch of tasty lust,
    Desire not to be rinsed with wine:
    The can must be so sweet, the crust
    So fresh that come in fasts divine!

    The speaker/devotee orders his sense of taste to cease its intrusion upon the soul. He specifically commands his taste buds not to crave wine.  The sense of taste must be subdued by fasting, wherein the urge for food and drink become swallowed up in the bliss of Divine communion.

    Fifth Quatrain:   Calming the Sense of Smell

    Nostrils, your careless breath that spend
    Upon the stir and keep of pride,
    What relish shall the censers send
    Along the sanctuary side!

    The sense of smell accompanies the act of breathing, and in meditation, breathing slows until it stops in deepest awareness of the Divine Essence.  The speaker commands his nose by asserting the premise that it functions through a sense of pride, which is damaging to the humbleness necessary for Divine awareness.

    Sixth Quatrain:  Calming the Sense of Touch

    O feel-of-primrose hands, O feet
    That want the yield of plushy sward,
    But you shall walk the golden street
    And you unhouse and house the Lord.

    The speaker then promises his greedy hands and feet, which desire softness and comfort, that they will be rewarded to walk the golden street, if they cooperate in sacrificing their worldly comforts for heavenly ones.

    Seventh Quatrain:  Union of Soul and Divine

    And, Poverty, be thou the bride
    And now the marriage feast begun,
    And lily-coloured clothes provide
    Your spouse not laboured-at nor spun.

    In the final quatrain, the speaker alludes to the Christ’s command not to become overly conscious about one’s clothes: 

    And why take ye thought for raiment? Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin: And yet I say unto you, That even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.  (Matthew 6:28-29 KJV)

    The speaker avers that taking Poverty as his bride, he will enjoy all the comforts of heaven. As a monastic, the speaker has taken a vow of poverty or simplicity because he is seeking treasures not afforded by the material world. 

    As he silences and calms all the senses, his true marriage feast begins, his marriage or union with the Divine Over-Soul, in Whom all worthwhile treasures are acquired and all worthy goals are achieved.

  • Gerard Manley Hopkins’ “Pied Beauty”

    Gerard Manley Hopkins – National Portrait Gallery, London

    Gerard Manley Hopkins’ “Pied Beauty”

    Gerard Manley  Hopkins’ “Pied Beauty” is an eleven-line curtal sonnet, dedicated to honoring and praising God for the special beauty of His creation.  Father Hopkins coined the term “curtal” to label his eleven-line sonnets.

    Introduction and Text of “Pied Beauty”

    The speaker in Gerard Manley Hopkins’ poem/hymn “Pied Beauty” offers a tribute to the Creator for all things natural and human inspired, with special emphasis on things that are multi-colored, dotted, striped, or patterned in ingenious ways.  The poem employs Father Hopkins’ famed sprung rhythm and unique rime scheme: ABCABCDBCDC.  

    The poem is an eleven-line sonnet called a curtal, a term which Father Hopkins coined to describe the form he employed in certain of his poems, including “Pied Beauty.”  While the speaker emphasizes beauty by contrasting things that are widely touted as unpleasant yet possess a certain aura of unique loveliness, he ultimately is affirming that God has made all of creation to reflect various styles of beauty.

    Thus, the speaker begins by giving all “glory” to God for all these created things, and he concludes by insisting that God be praised for giving humankind these many patterned objects of beauty.   

    God and beauty are being weighed in special terms as the speaker creates in his hymn a drama of oppositional tension that results in the creation of balance and harmony.    Through appreciation and praise of God for His gifts, humankind learns that balance and harmony in order to complete life’s goals and purposes. 

    Pied Beauty

    Glory be to God for dappled things –
       For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;
          For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;
    Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches’ wings;
       Landscape plotted and pieced – fold, fallow, and plough;
          And áll trádes, their gear and tackle and trim. 

    All things counter, original, spare, strange;
       Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)
          With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;
    He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:
                                    Praise him.

    Recitation of “Pied Beauty”

    Commentary on “Pied Beauty”

    Father Hopkins’ poem remarkably enlists several synonyms for the important title term “pied.”  Those synonyms are dappled, couple-colour, brinded (archaic form of brindled), stipple, and freckled.   All of those terms refer to multi-color or dotted patterns that so often appear in nature, that this observant human heart finds divinely inspired.

    The poem is, therefore, a hymn honoring the Supreme Creator of all that exists.  The piece offers gratitude that the Heavenly Father-Creator has fashioned His world to provide delight for His children.

    First Movement:  A Pattern of Gratitude

    Glory be to God for dappled things –

    The speaker begins by glorifying Creator-God for having effected His world to include objects that are multi-spotted and multi-colored.  While the speaker undoubtedly offers God all glory to everything in creation, he also glorifies his Creator for not only things but also events.  The act of creation remains of particular interest.

    The speaker appears to be concentrating on a certain style and pattern that the Almighty has chosen to bestow on certain of His creatures and things.  And this devout speaker remains most appreciative of those patterns.  Thus, the glory, the honor, and the achievement of God have infused this speaker’s heart and mind to express gratitude.

    Second Movement:  Examples of All Things Dappled

    For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;
          For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;
    Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches’ wings;
       Landscape plotted and pieced – fold, fallow, and plough;
          And áll trádes, their gear and tackle and trim.

    The speaker then offers examples of those “dappled” things for which he is offering glory to God. He appreciates the sky that ofttimes appears as multi-colored as a spotted bovine.  The speaker is thankful also for the patterns that are dotted over the bodies of “trout that swim.”  These stippling patterns resemble small mole-like roses as they decorate the skin of those fish.

    This observant, devout speaker also adores the beauty of fallen chestnuts that resemble freshly set-ablaze fire coals on a grate or in a stove.   He also uses the “finches’ wings” to exemplify his appreciation for things “dappled.”  The wings of finches are often layered strips.  The speaker then widens his example to include even the “[l]andscape” or the farmers’ fields that the farmer has “plotted and pieced” in order to plough and “fold” or allow to lie “fallow.”  

    He finds those patterns to be offering the glory that all “dappled” things offer; thus, he honors them by mentioning them as an example. In fact, every commercial endeavor deserves a nod along with the instruments, their tools, which he refers to as “gear,” “tackle,” and “trim.”

    Third Movement:  The Spice of Variety

     All things counter, original, spare, strange;

    In the second stanza, beginning with the third movement, the speaker shifts from simple  spotted, multi-colored things to everything remaining that runs against expectation, or that is original and unique, or things that seem simple, and things that appear odd.

    Because creation seems to offer an infinite number of styles, patterns, and ways of being, the speaker now wishes to praise God and glorify the Divine Maker by recognizing the Creator’s penchant for variety. 

    If the old adage “variety is the spice of life” possesses any truth, then certainly the Heavenly Father-God is responsible for the creation of those spices.  This speaker thus widens his scope for gratitude.

    Fourth Movement:  Things That Change

     Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)
          With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim; 

    The speaker then offers further elucidation for the other components that make up his glossary of things that deserve attention and appreciation because of their having been offered to humankind by the Ultimate Reality, the Supreme Creator of the cosmos.

    So the speaker reports that all things, beings, creatures that possess the quality of fickleness or changeability belong to his list of things that honor and give glory to God.  Even “freckled” things, of which no one can define the origin, belong to this category.

    Those “fickle” and “freckled” things all have several qualities in common; thus, they may exist and behave with speed or move measuredly.   They may possess the opposite flavors of sweetness or sourness.  Some may also reflect light blazingly while others remain muted and subdued.

    Regardless of the unique qualities, they are all part of the Blessèd Creator’s offerings to His children for their pleasure or for their edification or to light whatever pathway they are destined to follow.

    Fifth Movement:  That Which Does not Change

    He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:
                                    Praise him.

    The speaker then concludes with a command—”Praise him.”  In the beginning, he made it clear that he was offering all glory to God for the things He has given through creation. Now he offers his stern command, but before that command, he offers the reason that such praise is due Him. 

    The Father of all this beauty continues, and although He Himself is “past change” or without the necessity to change Himself, He continues to offer through creation a beauty that is many faceted, multi-colored, multi-stippled, and brindled. And all things remain on a spectrum that humankind cannot duplicate but is surely obligated to honor, appreciate, and glorify in the name of Father God.