The fine delight that fathers thought; the strong <br />Spur, live and lancing like the blowpipe flame, <br />Breathes once and, quenchèd faster than it came, <br />Leaves yet the mind a mother of immortal song. <br />Nine months she then, nay years, nine years she long <br />Within her wears, bears, cares and moulds the same: <br />The widow of an insight lost she lives, with aim <br />Now known and hand at work now never wrong. <br />Sweet fire the sire of muse, my soul needs this; <br />I want the one rapture of an inspiration. <br />O then if in my lagging lines you miss <br />The roll, the rise, the carol, the creation, <br />My winter world, that scarcely breathes that bliss <br />Now, yields you, with some sighs, our explanation.<br /><br />Gerard Manley Hopkins<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/to-r-b/
