GERARD MANLEY HOPKINS
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 unhousc 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.
��837 Felix Randal
FELIX RANDAL the farrier, O he is dead then? my duty all ended,
Who have watched his mould of man, big-boned and hardy- handsome Pining, pining, till time when reason rambled in it and
some Fatal four disorders, flesh'd there, all contended ?
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