Kingfishers

As kíngfishers cátch fire, drágonflies dráw fláme is the first line of one of the most beautiful poems I have ever read. I first came across Hopkins and his alarming sense of metre, his 'sprung rhythm', in an English Lit class more than 20 years ago. He has never left me, this Jesuit whose eye saw angels and whose ear heard dominions and the salutes of the seraphim. Of all the poets I know, he is the only one who speaks so intimately to the spiritual sense of self, over so many pages, in such multifarious and mellifluous guise. Read him for yourself — the stresses marked are the poet's own.

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As kíngfishers cátch fire, drágonflies dráw fláme;
As túmbled óver rím in róundy wélls
Stones ríng; like éach tucked stríng tells, éach hung béll's
Bow swúng finds tóngue to flíng out bróad its náme;
Each mórtal thíng does óne thing ánd the sáme:
Déals out that béing indoors éach one dwélls;
Selves-góes itsélf; mysélf it spéaks and spélls,
Crying: Whát I dó is mé: for thát I cáme.

Í say móre: the júst man jústicés;
Keeps gráce: thát keeps áll his góings gráces;
Ácts in God's éye whát in God's éye he ís-
Christ-for Chríst pláys in ten thóusand pláces,
Lóvely in límbs, and lóvely in éyes not his
To the Fáther thróugh the féatures of méns's fáces.

Gerard Manley Hopkins