Gerard Manley Hopkins





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.