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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=397239" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Blessed Virgin Compared to the Air We Breathe</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Wild air, world-mothering air, <br>Nestling me everywhere, <br>That each eyelash or hair <br>Girdles; goes home betwixt <br>The fleeciest, frailest-flixed<br>Snowflake; that ’s fairly mixed <br>With, riddles, and is rife <br>In every least thing’s life; <br>This needful, never spent, <br>And nursing element;<br>My more than meat and drink, <br>My meal at every wink; <br>This air, which, by life’s law, <br>My lung must draw and draw <br>Now but to breathe its praise,<br>Minds me in many ways <br>Of her who not only <br>Gave God’s infinity <br>Dwindled to infancy <br>Welcome in womb and breast,<br>Birth, milk, and all the rest <br>But mothers each new grace <br>That does now reach our race— <br>Mary Immaculate, <br>Merely a woman, yet <br>Whose presence, power is <br>Great as no goddess’s <br>Was deemèd, dreamèd; who <br>This one work has to do— <br>Let all God’s glory through,<br>God’s glory which would go <br>Through her and from her flow <br>Off, and no way but so. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I say that we are wound <br>With mercy round and round<br>As if with air: the same <br>Is Mary, more by name. <br>She, wild web, wondrous robe, <br>Mantles the guilty globe, <br>Since God has let dispense<br>Her prayers his providence: <br>Nay, more than almoner, <br>The sweet alms’ self is her <br>And men are meant to share <br>Her life as life does air.<br>If I have understood, <br>She holds high motherhood <br>Towards all our ghostly good <br>And plays in grace her part <br>About man’s beating heart,<br>Laying, like air’s fine flood, <br>The deathdance in his blood; <br>Yet no part but what will <br>Be Christ our Saviour still. <br>Of her flesh he took flesh:<br>He does take fresh and fresh, <br>Though much the mystery how, <br>Not flesh but spirit now <br>And makes, O marvellous! <br>New Nazareths in us,<br>Where she shall yet conceive <br>Him, morning, noon, and eve; <br>New Bethlems, and he born <br>There, evening, noon, and morn— <br>Bethlem or Nazareth,<br>Men here may draw like breath <br>More Christ and baffle death; <br>Who, born so, comes to be <br>New self and nobler me <br>In each one and each one<br>More makes, when all is done, <br>Both God’s and Mary’s Son. <br>Again, look overhead <br>How air is azurèd; <br>O how! nay do but stand<br>Where you can lift your hand <br>Skywards: rich, rich it laps <br>Round the four fingergaps. <br>Yet such a sapphire-shot, <br>Charged, steepèd sky will not <br>Stain light. Yea, mark you this: <br>It does no prejudice. <br>The glass-blue days are those <br>When every colour glows, <br>Each shape and shadow shows.<br>Blue be it: this blue heaven <br>The seven or seven times seven <br>Hued sunbeam will transmit <br>Perfect, not alter it. <br>Or if there does some soft,<br>On things aloof, aloft, <br>Bloom breathe, that one breath more <br>Earth is the fairer for. <br>Whereas did air not make <br>This bath of blue and slake <br>His fire, the sun would shake, <br>A blear and blinding ball <br>With blackness bound, and all <br>The thick stars round him roll <br>Flashing like flecks of coal, <br>Quartz-fret, or sparks of salt, <br>In grimy vasty vault. <br>So God was god of old: <br>A mother came to mould <br>Those limbs like ours which are <br>What must make our daystar <br>Much dearer to mankind; <br>Whose glory bare would blind <br>Or less would win man’s mind. <br>Through her we may see him <br>Made sweeter, not made dim, <br>And her hand leaves his light <br>Sifted to suit our sight. <br>Be thou then, O thou dear <br>Mother, my atmosphere;<br>My happier world, wherein <br>To wend and meet no sin; <br>Above me, round me lie <br>Fronting my froward eye <br>With sweet and scarless sky;<br>Stir in my ears, speak there <br>Of God’s love, O live air, <br>Of patience, penance, prayer: <br>World-mothering air, air wild, <br>Wound with thee, in thee isled,<br>Fold home, fast fold thy child.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Gerard+Manley+Hopkins">Gerard Manley Hopkins</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=397239" data-title="The Blessed Virgin Compared to the Air We Breathe de Gerard Manley Hopkins" data-description="Wild air, world-mothering air, 
Nestling me everywhere, 
That each eyelash or hair 
Girdles; goes home betwixt 
The fleeciest, frailest-flixed
Snowflake; that ’s fairly mixed 
With, riddles, and is rife 
In every least thing’s life; 
This need..."></div>
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