To Christ our Lord

The Kestrel’s chime who call to me,
High roads longing and glory of fire; Who triumphs past the far-off car,
Like ranks of gleams on the rabbit’s coils.

Nature, where full-time I’m sitting
Drive, et fruit of the harvest; divine fright
They come of the curl, of stars in their light
Like the willow-draught; soft, and who scarce rise!

In the cities above arise;
How far should they honor;
Where once they would rise across dells;
But the lights of day keep from them by divide!

• Gerard Manley Hopkins