{"product_id":"mortal-beauty-gods-grace-isbn-9780375725661","title":"Mortal Beauty, God's Grace","description":"Gerard Manley Hopkins is one of English poetry's most brilliant stylistic innovators, and one of the most distinguished poets of any age. However, during his lifetime he was known not as a poet but as a Jesuit priest, and his faith was essential to his work. His writings combine an intense feeling for nature with an ecstatic awareness of its divine origins, most remarkably expressed in his magnificent and highly original 'sprung rhythm.'\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis collection contains not only all of Hopkins’ significant poetry, but also selections from his journals, sermons, and letters, all chosen for their spiritual guidance and insight. Hopkins didn't allow the publication of most of his poems during his lifetime, so his genius was not appreciated until after his death. Now, more than a hundred years later, his words are still a source of inspiration and sheer infectious joy in the radiance of God's creation.\"All things therefore are charged with God and, if we know how to touch them, give off sparks and take fire, yield drops and flow, ring and tell of him.\" –Gerard Manley HopkinsGerald Manley Hopkins (1844-1889) is one of English poetry's most brilliant innovators, and one of the most distinguished poets of any age.  However, during his lifetime he was known not as a poet, but as a Jesuit priest, and his faith was essential to his work.  This collection contains not only all of Hopkin's significant poetry, but also selections from his journals, sermons, and letters, all chosen for their spiritual guidance and insight.  His writings combine an intense feeling for nature with an ecstatic awareness of its divine origins, most remarkably expressed in his magnificent and highly original \"sprung rhythm.\"  Because Hopkins was generally unsuccessful at publishing his poems, his genius did not begin to be appreciated until the first collection of his work appeared in 1918.  Now, more than a hundred years after his death, his words are still a source of inspiration and sheer infectious joy in the radiance of God's creation.Poetry\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHEAVEN-HAVEN\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e(\u003ci\u003ea nun takes the veil\u003c\/i\u003e)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI have desired to go\u003cbr\u003eWhere springs not fail,\u003cbr\u003eTo fields where flies no sharp and sided hail\u003cbr\u003eAnd a few lilies blow.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd I have asked to be\u003cbr\u003eWhere no storms come,\u003cbr\u003eWhere the green swell is in the havens dumb,\u003cbr\u003eAnd out of the swing of the sea.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTHE HABITAT OF PERFECTION\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eElected Silence, sing to me\u003cbr\u003eAnd beat upon my whorlèd ear,\u003cbr\u003ePipe me to pastures still and be\u003cbr\u003eThe music that I care to hear.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShape nothing, lips; be lovely-dumb:\u003cbr\u003eIt is the shut, the curfew sent\u003cbr\u003eFrom there where all surrenders come\u003cbr\u003eWhich only makes you eloquent.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBe shellèd, eyes, with double dark\u003cbr\u003eAnd find the uncreated light:\u003cbr\u003eThis ruck and reel which you remark\u003cbr\u003eCoils, keeps, and teases simple sight.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePalate, the hutch of tasty lust,\u003cbr\u003eDesire not to be rinsed with wine:\u003cbr\u003eThe can must be so sweet, the crust\u003cbr\u003eSo fresh that come in fasts divine!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNostrils, your careless breath that spend\u003cbr\u003eUpon the stir and keep of pride,\u003cbr\u003eWhat relish shall the censers send\u003cbr\u003eAlong the sanctuary side!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eO feel-of-primrose hands, O feet\u003cbr\u003eThat want the yield of plushy sward,\u003cbr\u003eBut you shall walk the golden street\u003cbr\u003eAnd you unhouse and house the Lord.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd, Poverty, be thou the bride\u003cbr\u003eAnd now the marriage feast begun,\u003cbr\u003eAnd lily-coloured clothes provide\u003cbr\u003eYour spouse not laboured-at nor spun.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNONDUM4\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"\u003ci\u003eVerily Thou art a God that hidest Thyself\u003c\/i\u003e.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIsaiah 45:15\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGod, though to Thee our psalm we raise\u003cbr\u003eNo answering voice comes from the skies;\u003cbr\u003eTo Thee the trembling sinner prays\u003cbr\u003eBut no forgiving voice replies;\u003cbr\u003eOur prayer seems lost in desert ways,\u003cbr\u003eOur hymn in the vast silence dies.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe see the glories of the earth\u003cbr\u003eBut not the hand that wrought them all:\u003cbr\u003eNight to a myriad worlds gives birth,\u003cbr\u003eYet like a lighted empty hall\u003cbr\u003eWhere stands no host at door or hearth\u003cbr\u003eVacant creation's lamps appal.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe guess; we clothe Thee, unseen King,\u003cbr\u003eWith attributes we deem are meet;\u003cbr\u003eEach in his own imagining\u003cbr\u003eSets up a shadow in Thy seat;\u003cbr\u003eYet know not how our gifts to bring,\u003cbr\u003eWhere seek Thee with unsandalled feet.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd still th'unbroken silence broods\u003cbr\u003eWhile ages and while aeons run,\u003cbr\u003eAs erst upon chaotic floods\u003cbr\u003eThe Spirit hovered ere the sun\u003cbr\u003eHad called the seasons' changeful moods\u003cbr\u003eAnd life's first germs from death had won.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd still th'abysses infinite\u003cbr\u003eSurround the peak from which we gaze.\u003cbr\u003eDeep calls to deep, and blackest night\u003cbr\u003eGiddies the soul with blinding daze\u003cbr\u003eThat dares to cast its searching sight\u003cbr\u003eOn being's dread and vacant maze.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd Thou art silent, whilst Thy world\u003cbr\u003eContends about its many creeds\u003cbr\u003eAnd hosts confront with flags unfurled\u003cbr\u003eAnd zeal is flushed and pity bleeds\u003cbr\u003eAnd truth is heard, with tears impearled,\u003cbr\u003eA moaning voice among the reeds.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy hand upon my lips I lay;\u003cbr\u003eThe breast's desponding sob I quell;\u003cbr\u003eI move along life's tomb-decked way\u003cbr\u003eAnd listen to the passing bell\u003cbr\u003eSummoning men from speechless day\u003cbr\u003eTo death's more silent, darker spell.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOh! till Thou givest that sense beyond,\u003cbr\u003eTo shew Thee that Thou art, and near,\u003cbr\u003eLet patience with her chastening wand\u003cbr\u003eDispel the doubt and dry the tear;\u003cbr\u003eAnd lead me child-like by the hand\u003cbr\u003eIf still in darkness not in fear.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSpeak! whisper to my watching heart\u003cbr\u003eOne word-as when a mother speaks\u003cbr\u003eSoft, when she sees her infant start,\u003cbr\u003eTill dimpled joy steals o'er its cheeks.\u003cbr\u003eThen, to behold Thee as Thou art,\u003cbr\u003eI'll wait till morn eternal breaks.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eORATIO PATRIS CONDREN: O JESU VIVENS IN MARIA\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJesu that dost in Mary dwell,\u003cbr\u003eBe in thy servants' hearts as well,\u003cbr\u003eIn the spirit of thy holiness,\u003cbr\u003eIn the fulness of thy force and stress,\u003cbr\u003eIn the very ways that thy life goes\u003cbr\u003eAnd virtues that thy pattern shows,\u003cbr\u003eIn the sharing of thy mysteries;\u003cbr\u003eAnd every power in us that is\u003cbr\u003eAgainst thy power put under feet\u003cbr\u003eIn the Holy Ghost the Paraclete\u003cbr\u003e     To the glory of the Father. Amen.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eS. THOMAE AQUINATIS\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRhythmus ad SS. Sacramentum\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"\u003ci\u003eAdoro te supplex, latens deitas\u003c\/i\u003e\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGodhead, I adore thee fast in hiding; thou\u003cbr\u003eGod in these bare shapes, poor shadows, darkling now:\u003cbr\u003eSee, Lord, at thy service low lies here a heart\u003cbr\u003eLost, all lost in wonder at the God thou art.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSeeing, touching, tasting are in thee deceived;\u003cbr\u003eHow says trusty hearing? that shall be believed:\u003cbr\u003eWhat God's Son has told me, take for truth I do;\u003cbr\u003eTruth himself speaks truly or there's nothing true.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOn the cross thy godhead made no sign to men;\u003cbr\u003eHere thy very manhood steals from human ken:\u003cbr\u003eBoth are my confession, both are my belief,\u003cbr\u003eAnd I pray the prayer of the dying thief.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI am not like Thomas, wounds I cannot see,\u003cbr\u003eBut can plainly call thee Lord and God as he:\u003cbr\u003eThis faith each day deeper be my holding of,\u003cbr\u003eDaily make me harder hope and dearer love.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eO thou our reminder of Christ crucified,\u003cbr\u003eLiving Bread the life of us for whom he died,\u003cbr\u003eLend this life to me then: feed and feast my mind,\u003cbr\u003eThere be thou the sweetness man was meant to find.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLike what tender tales tell of the Pelican;\u003cbr\u003eBathe me, Jesu Lord, in what thy bosom ran-\u003cbr\u003eBlood that but one drop of has the worth to win\u003cbr\u003eAll the world forgiveness of its world of sin.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJesu whom I look at veilèd here below,\u003cbr\u003eI beseech thee send me what I thirst for so,\u003cbr\u003eSome day to gaze on thee face to face in light\u003cbr\u003eAnd be blest for ever with thy glory's sight.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTHE WRECK OF THE DEUTSCHLAND\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eDec. 6, 7, 1875\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eto the happy memory of five Franciscan nuns,\u003cbr\u003eexiles by the Falck Laws, drowned between\u003cbr\u003emidnight and morning of December 7.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003ePart the first\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e             Thou mastering me\u003cbr\u003e           God! giver of breath and bread;\u003cbr\u003e         World's strand, sway of the sea;\u003cbr\u003e           Lord of living and dead;\u003cbr\u003e     Thou hast bound bones and veins in me, fastened me flesh,\u003cbr\u003e     And after it álmost únmade, what with dread,\u003cbr\u003e         Thy doing: and dost thou touch me afresh?\u003cbr\u003eOver again I feel thy finger and find theé.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e2\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e             I did say yes\u003cbr\u003e           O at lightning and lashed rod;\u003cbr\u003e         Thou heardst me truer than tongue confess\u003cbr\u003e           Thy terror, O Christ, O God;\u003cbr\u003e     Thou knowest the walls, altar and hour and night:\u003cbr\u003e     The swoon of a heart that the sweep and the hurl of thee trod\u003cbr\u003e         Hard down with a horror of height:\u003cbr\u003eAnd the midriff astrain with leaning of, laced with fire of stress.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e3\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e            The frown of his face\u003cbr\u003e          Before me, the hurtle of hell\u003cbr\u003e       Behind, where, where was a, where was a place?\u003cbr\u003e          I whirled out wings that spell\u003cbr\u003e    And fled with a fling of the heart to the heart of the Host.\u003cbr\u003e    My heart, but you were dovewinged, I can tell,\u003cbr\u003e       Carrier-witted, I am bold to boast,\u003cbr\u003eTo flash from the flame to the flame then, tower from the grace to the\u003cbr\u003e               grace.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e4\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e             I am sóft sift\u003cbr\u003e          In an hourglass-at the wall\u003cbr\u003e        Fast, but mined with a motion, a drift,\u003cbr\u003e         And it crowds and it combs to the fall;\u003cbr\u003e     I steady as a water in a well, to a poise, to a pane,\u003cbr\u003e     But roped with, always, all the way down from the tall\u003cbr\u003e        Fells or flanks of the voel, a vein\u003cbr\u003eOf the gospel proffer, a pressure, a principle, Christ's gift.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e5\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e              I kiss my hand\u003cbr\u003e           To the stars, lovely-asunder\u003cbr\u003e        Starlight, wafting him out of it; and\u003cbr\u003e           Glow, glory in thunder;\u003cbr\u003e     Kiss my hand to the dappled-with-damson west:\u003cbr\u003e     Since, though he is under the world's splendour and wonder,\u003cbr\u003e        His mystery must be instressed, stressed;\u003cbr\u003eFor I greet him the days I meet him, and bless when I understand.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e6\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e              Not out of his bliss\u003cbr\u003e           Springs the stress felt\u003cbr\u003e         Nor first from heaven (and few know this)\u003cbr\u003e           Swings the stroke dealt-\u003cbr\u003e     Stroke and a stress that stars and storms deliver,\u003cbr\u003e     That guilt is hushed by, hearts are flushed by and melt-\u003cbr\u003e         But it rides time like riding a river\u003cbr\u003e(And here the faithful waver, the faithless fable and miss.)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e7\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e              It dates from day\u003cbr\u003e           Of his going in Galilee;\u003cbr\u003e         Warm-laid grave of a womb-life grey;\u003cbr\u003e           Manger, maiden's knee;\u003cbr\u003e     The dense and the driven Passion, and frightful sweat;\u003cbr\u003e     Thence the discharge of it, there its swelling to be,\u003cbr\u003e         Though felt before, though in high flood yet-\u003cbr\u003eWhat none would have known of it, only the heart, being hard at bay,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e8\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e             Is out with it! Oh,\u003cbr\u003e          We lash with the best or worst\u003cbr\u003e        Word last! How a lush-kept plush-capped sloe\u003cbr\u003e          Will, mouthed to flesh-burst,\u003cbr\u003e     Gush!-flush the man, the being with it, sour or sweet,\u003cbr\u003e     Brim, in a flash, full!-Hither then, last or first,\u003cbr\u003e         To hero of Calvary, Christ's, feet-\u003cbr\u003eNever ask if meaning it, wanting it, warned of it-men go.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e9\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e              Be adored among men,\u003cbr\u003e           God, three-numberèd form;\u003cbr\u003e         Wring thy rebel, dogged in den,\u003cbr\u003e           Man's malice, with wrecking and storm.\u003cbr\u003e     Beyond saying sweet, past telling of tongue,\u003cbr\u003e     Thou art lightning and love, I found it, a winter and warm;\u003cbr\u003e         Father and fondler of heart thou hast wrung;\u003cbr\u003eHast thy dark descending and most art merciful then.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e10\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e             With an anvil-ding\u003cbr\u003e          And with fire in him forge thy will\u003cbr\u003e        Or rather, rather then, stealing as Spring\u003cbr\u003e          Through him, melt him but master hi still:\u003cbr\u003e     Whether át ónce, as once at a crash Paul,\u003cbr\u003e     Or as Austin,5 a lingering-out sweet skill,\u003cbr\u003e        Make mercy in all of us, out of us all\u003cbr\u003eMastery, but be adored, but be adored King.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003ePart the second\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e11\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e            \"Some find me a sword; some\u003cbr\u003e            The flange and the rail; flame,\u003cbr\u003e        Fang, or flood\" goes Death on drum,\u003cbr\u003e            And storms bugle his fame.\u003cbr\u003e     But wé dréam we are rooted in earth-Dust!\u003cbr\u003e     Flesh falls within sight of us: we, though our flower the same,\u003cbr\u003e        Wave with the meadow, forget that there must\u003cbr\u003eThe sour scythe cringe, and the blear share come.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e12\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e            On Saturday sailed from Bremen,\u003cbr\u003e            American-outward-bound,\u003cbr\u003e        Take settler and seamen, tell men with women,\u003cbr\u003e             Two hundred souls in the round-\u003cbr\u003e    O Father, not under thy feathers nor ever as guessing\u003cbr\u003e    The goal was a shoal, of a fourth the doom to be drowned;\u003cbr\u003e        Yet díd the dark side of the bay of thy blessing\u003cbr\u003eNot vault them, the million of rounds of thy mercy not reeve even\u003cbr\u003ethem in?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e13\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e            Into the snows she sweeps,\u003cbr\u003e            Hurling the Haven behind,\u003cbr\u003e         The Deutschland, on Sunday; and so the sky keeps,\u003cbr\u003e            For the infinite air is unkind,\u003cbr\u003e     And the sea flint-flake, black-backed in the regular blow,\u003cbr\u003e     Sitting Eastnortheast, in cursed quarter, the wind\u003cbr\u003e         Wiry and white-fiery and whírlwind-swivellèd snow\u003cbr\u003eSpins to the widow-making unchilding unfathering deeps.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e14\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e           She drove in the dark to leeward,\u003cbr\u003e           She struck-not a reef or a rock\u003cbr\u003e        But the combs of a smother of sand: night drew her\u003cbr\u003e           Dead to the Kentish Knock;\u003cbr\u003e     And she beat the bank down with her bows and the ride of her\u003cbr\u003e              keel;\u003cbr\u003e     The breakers rolled on her beam with ruinous shock;\u003cbr\u003e        And canvass and compass, the whorl and the wheel\u003cbr\u003eIdle for ever to waft her or wind her with, these she endured.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e15\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e          Hope had grown grey hairs,\u003cbr\u003e          Hope had mourning on\u003cbr\u003e        Trenched with tears, carved with cares,\u003cbr\u003e          Hope was twelve hours gone;\u003cbr\u003e     And frightful a nightfall folded rueful a day\u003cbr\u003e     Nor rescue, only rocket and lightship, shone,\u003cbr\u003e        And lives at last were washing away:\u003cbr\u003eTo the shrouds they took,-they shook in the hurling and horrible airs.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e16\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e           One stirred from the rigging to save\u003cbr\u003e           The wild woman-kind below,\u003cbr\u003e         With a rope's end round theman, handy and brave-\u003cbr\u003e           He was pitched to his death at a blow,\u003cbr\u003e     For all his dreadnought breast and braids of thew:\u003cbr\u003e     They could tell him for hours, dandled the to and fro\u003cbr\u003e         Through the cobbled foam-fleece. What could he do\u003cbr\u003eWith the burl of the fountains of air, buck and the flood of the wave?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e17\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e           They fought with God's cold-\u003cbr\u003e           And they could not and fell to the deck\u003cbr\u003e         (Crushed them) or water (and drowned them) or rolled\u003cbr\u003e           With the sea-romp over the wreck.\u003cbr\u003e     Night roared, with the heart-break hearing a heart-broke\u003cbr\u003e              rabble,\u003cbr\u003e     The woman wailing, the crying of child without check-\u003cbr\u003e         Till a lioness arose breasting the babble,\u003cbr\u003eA prophetess towered in the tumult, a virginal tongue told.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e18\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e           Ah, touched in your bower of bone\u003cbr\u003e           Are you! turned for an exquisite smart,\u003cbr\u003e         Have you! make words break from me here all alone,\u003cbr\u003e           Do you!-mother of being in me, heart.\u003cbr\u003e     O unteachably after evil, but uttering truth,\u003cbr\u003e     Why, tears! is it? tears; such a melting, a madrigal start!\u003cbr\u003e         Never-eldering revel and river of youth,\u003cbr\u003eWhat can it be, this glee? the good you have there of your own?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e19\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e           Sister, a sister calling\u003cbr\u003e           A master, her master and mine!-\u003cbr\u003e         And the inboard seas run swirling and hawling;\u003cbr\u003e           The rash smart sloggering brine\u003cbr\u003e     Blinds her; but shé that weather sees óne thing, one;\u003cbr\u003e     Has óne fetch ín her: she rears herself to divine\u003cbr\u003e         Ears, and the call of the tall nun\u003cbr\u003eTo the men in the tops and the tackle rode over the storm's brawling.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e20\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e           She was first of a five and came\u003cbr\u003e           of a coifèd sisterhood.\u003cbr\u003e         (O Deutschland, double a desperate name!\u003cbr\u003e           O world wide of its good!\u003cbr\u003e     But Gertrude, lily, and Luther, are two of a town,\u003cbr\u003e     Christ's lily and beast of the waste wood:\u003cbr\u003e         From life's dawn it is drawn down,\u003cbr\u003eAbel is Cain's brother and breasts they have sucked the same.)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e21\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e           Loathed for a love men knew in them,\u003cbr\u003e           Banned by the land of their birth,\u003cbr\u003e         Rhine refused them, Thames would ruin them;\u003cbr\u003e           Surf, snow, river and earth\u003cbr\u003e     Gnashed: but thou art above, thou Orion of light;\u003cbr\u003e     Thy unchancelling poising palms were weighing the worth,\u003cbr\u003e         Thou martyr-master: in thy´ sight\u003cbr\u003eStorm flakes were scroll-leaved flowers, lily showers-sweet heaven\u003cbr\u003e             was astrew in them.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e22\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e           Five! the finding and sake\u003cbr\u003e           And cipher of suffering Christ.\u003cbr\u003e         Mark, the mark is of man's make\u003cbr\u003e           And the word of it Sacrificed.\u003cbr\u003e     But he scores it in scarlet himself on his own bespoken,\u003cbr\u003e     Before-time-taken, dearest prizèd and priced-\u003cbr\u003e         Stigma, signal, cinquefoil token\u003cbr\u003eFor lettering of the lamb's fleece, ruddying of the rose-flake.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e23\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e           Joy fall to thee, father Francis,\u003cbr\u003e           Drawn to the Life that died;\u003cbr\u003e         With the gnarls of the nails in thee, niche of the lance, his\u003cbr\u003e           Lovescape crucified\u003cbr\u003e     And seal of his seraph-arrival! and these thy daughters\u003cbr\u003e     And five-livèd and leavèd favour and pride,\u003cbr\u003e         Are sisterly sealed in wild waters,\u003cbr\u003eTo bathe in his fall-gold mercies, to breathe in his all-fire glances.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e24\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e           Away in the loveable west,\u003cbr\u003e           On a pastoral forehead of Wales,\u003cbr\u003e         I was under a roof here, I was at rest,\u003cbr\u003e           And they the prey of the gales;\u003cbr\u003e     She to the black-about air, to the breaker, the thickly\u003cbr\u003e     Falling flakes, to the throng that catches and quails","brand":"Vintage","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46299908505829,"sku":"NP9780375725661","price":21.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780375725661.jpg?v=1767732983","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/mortal-beauty-gods-grace-isbn-9780375725661","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}