Look at the stars! look, look up at the skies! O look at all the fire-folk sitting in the air! The bright boroughs, the quivering citadels there! The dim woods quick with diamond wells; the elf-eyes! The grey lawns cold where quaking gold-dew lies! Wind-beat white-beam; airy abeles all on flare! Flake-doves sent floating out at a farmyard scare!-- Ah well! it is a purchase and a prize. Buy then! Bid then!--What?--Prayer, patience, alms, vows,-- Look, look! a May-mess, like on orchard boughs; Look! March-bloom, like on mealed-with-yellow sallows.-- These are indeed the barn: within-doors house The shocks. This piece-bright paling hides the Spouse Christ, and the mother of Christ and all his hallows. THE HABIT OF PERFECTION BY GERARD HOPKINS, S.J. Elected Silence, sing to me And beat upon my whorled 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 make you eloquent. Be shelled, 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-colored clothes provide Your spouse not labored-at, nor spun. SPRING BY GERARD HOPKINS, S.J. Nothing is so beautiful as spring-- When weeds, in wheels, shoot long and lovely and lush: Thrush’s eggs look little low heavens, and thrush Through the echoing timber does so rinse and wring The ear, it strikes like lightnings to hear him sing; The glassy pear-tree leaves and blooms, they brush The descending blue; that blue is all in a rush With richness; the racing lambs too have fair their fling. What is all this juice and all this joy? A strain of the earth’s sweet being in the beginning In Eden garden. Have, get, before it cloy, Before it cloud, Christ, lord, and sour with shining, Innocent mind and Mayday in girl and boy, Most, O maid’s child, thy choice and worthy the winning. THE FRIAR OF GENOA BY SCHARMEL IRIS In Genoa a friar walked; Of every sacred tale he talked; Alone he dwelt, in prayer he knelt; “Ave Maria, Ave Maria!” From dawn till dusk he sang.