Poem of the Week

The Windhover

By Gerard Manley Hopkins, whose birthday is today

I caught this morning morning’s minion, king-
   dom of daylight’s dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding
Of the rolling level underneath him steady air,   
   and striding
High there, how he rung upon the rein of a  
   wimpling wing
In his ecstacy! then off, off forth on swing,
As a skate’s heel sweeps smooth on a bow-bend: the  
   hurl and gliding
Rebuffed the big wind. My heart in hiding
Stirred for a bird,—the achieve of, the mastery of 
   the thing!
Brute beauty and valour and act, oh, air, pride, 
   plume, here
Buckle! AND the fire that breaks from thee then, a 
   billion
Times told lovelier, more dangerous, O my 
   chevalier!
No wonder of it: shéer plód makes plough down 
   sillion
Shine, and blue-bleak embers, ah my dear,
Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermillion.

Here’s a guide with insights into this poem.