Powerful Texts

Thomas Gradgrind, sir.

A man of realities.

A man of facts and calculations.

A man who proceeds upon the principle that two and two are four,

and nothing over, and is not to be talked into allowing for anything over.

Thomas Gradgrind, sir -

peremptorily Thomas - Thomas Gradgrind.

With a rule and a pair of scales, and the multiplication table always in his pocket, sir,

ready to weigh and measure any parcel of human nature, and tell you exactly what it comes to.

A mere question of figures, a case of simple arithmetic.

You might hope to get some other nonsensical belief into the head of George Gradgrind,

or Augustus Gradgrind, or John Gradgrind, or Joseph Gradgrind -

all supposititious, non-existent persons -

but into the head of Thomas Gradgrind - no, sir!

Now, what I want is Facts.

Teach these boys and girls nothing but Facts.

Facts alone are wanted in life.

Plant nothing else, and root out everything else.

You can only form the minds of reasoning animals upon Facts:

Nothing else will ever be of any service to them.

This is the principle on which I bring up my own children,

and this is the principle on which I bring up these children.

Stick to the Facts, sir!

In this life, we want nothing but Facts, sir; nothing but Facts!

Girl number 20.

I don't know that girl. Who is that girl?

Sissy Jupe, sir.

Sissy is not a name.

Don't call yourself Sissy. Call yourself Cecilia.

It's Father as calls me Sissy, sir.

Then he has no business to do it.

Tell him he mustn't, Cecilia Jupe. Let me see. What is your father?

He belongs to the horse-riding, if you please, sir.

We don't want to know anything about that, here.

You mustn't tell us about that, here.

Your father breaks horses, don't he?

If you please, sir, when they can get any to break, they do break horses in the ring, sir.

You mustn't tell us about the ring here.

Very well, then.

Describe your father as a horsebreaker.

He doctors sick horses, I dare say?

Oh yes, sir.

Very well, then.

He is a veterinary surgeon, a farrier, and horsebreaker.

Give me your definition of a horse.

Girl number 20 unable to define a horse!

Girl number 20 possessed of no Facts, in reference to one of the commonest of animals!

Some boy's definition of a horse. Bitzer, yours.

Your definition of a horse.

Quadruped. Graminivorous.

Forty teeth, namely twenty-four grinders,

four eye-teeth, and twelve incisive.

Sheds coat in the spring; in marshy countries, sheds hoofs, too.

Hoofs hard, but requiring to be shod with iron.

Age known by marks in mouth.

Now girl number 20,

you know what a horse is.

'Transportation pod emerging.

'Floor 421.'

John.

Tom. Tom Gradgrind. Welcome.

Now, I'm a man of the real world.

I believe in facts and calculations.

All I need to know is that two and two are four, with nothing leftover,

and no one can change my mind on that.

Give me a calculator and I can tell you how much anything is worth.

Or anyone.

It's not hard to put a value on people.

It's just simple arithmetic.

So, I teach my lot facts. Nothing but facts.

That's all they need to get a job, and we have to clear everything else out of their heads.

If we want kids who can think straight, we need to give them facts.

That's how I bring my own kids up and if it's good enough for them it's good enough for this lot.

Stick to the facts, you'll be fine.

Watch and learn, my friend. Watch and learn.

Hello.

A new girl. What's your name?

Sissy Jupe, Mr Gradgrind.

That sounds like a nickname.

Use your real name. Don't call yourself Sissy. Call yourself Cecilia.

It's my dad that calls me Sissy.

Mmm, well, Cecilia Jupe. What does your father do?

He works with the horses, at the fairground, sir.

Don't need to know about fairgrounds here.

You don't need to tell us about that.

So, your father trains horses, does he?

When we have them to train, yes. He trains horses for the circus.

I think I've already told you, Cecilia, you don't need to tell us about the circus here. OK?

Describe your father as a horse trainer.

I suppose he looks after the sick horses, does he?

Yes.

Well, then. He's a vet! And a horse trainer.

Give me your definition of a horse.

Huh. Cecilia Jupe can't describe a horse.

Cecilia Jupe possessed of no facts in reference to one of the commonest of animals.

Let's see,

someone else's definition of a horse. Bitzer, yours.

Give me your definition of a horse.

Quadruped. Graminivorous.

Forty teeth, namely twenty-four grinders, four eye-teeth, and twelve incisive.

Sheds coat in the spring; in marshy countries, sheds hoofs, too.

Hoofs hard, but requiring to be shod with iron.

Age known by marks in mouth.

Now, Cecilia Jupe, you know what a horse is.

Now, what I want is, Facts.

Teach these boys and girls nothing but Facts.

Facts alone are wanted in life.

Plant nothing else, and root out everything else.

You can only form the minds of reasoning animals upon Facts:

nothing else will ever be of any service to them.

This is the principle upon which I bring up my own children,

and this is the principle on which I bring up these children.

Stick to the Facts, sir!

The emphasis was helped by the speakers voice which was...

The emphasis was helped by the speaker's hair which...

..all covered with knobs...

As if the head had scarcely...

The speaker's...

Like a...

as it was, - all helped the emphasis.

In this life, we want nothing but Facts, sir; nothing but Facts!

Thomas Gradgrind, sir.

A man of realities.

A man of facts and calculations.

A man who proceeds upon the principle that two and two are four, and nothing over,

and is not to be talked into allowing for anything over.

Thomas Gradgrind, sir - peremptorily Thomas - Thomas Gradgrind.

With a rule and a pair of scales, and the multiplication table always in his pocket, sir,

ready to weigh and measure any parcel of human nature, and tell you exactly what it comes to.

A mere question of figures, a case of simple arithmetic.

You might hope to get some other nonsensical belief into the head of George Gradgrind,

or Augustus Gradgrind, or John Gradgrind, or Joseph Gradgrind -

all supposititious, non-existent persons -

but into the head of Thomas Gradgrind - no, sir!

Indeed, as he eagerly sparkled at them from the cellerage, before mentioned.

He seemed a kind of cannon, loaded to the muzzle with facts

and prepared to blow them clean out of the regions of childhood at one discharge.

Girl number 20.

I don't know that girl. Who is that girl?

Sissy Jupe, sir.

Sissy is not a name.

Don't call yourself Sissy. Call yourself Cecilia.'

It's Father as calls me Sissy, sir.

Then he has no business to do it.

Tell him he mustn't. Cecilia Jupe. Let me see. What is your father?

He belongs to the horse-riding, if you please, sir.

We don't want to know anything about that here.

You mustn't tell us about that here.

Your father breaks horses, don't he?

If you please, sir, when they can get any to break, they do break horses in the ring, sir.

You mustn't tell us about the ring, here.

Very well, then.

Describe your father as a horsebreaker.

He doctors sick horses, I dare say?

Oh yes, sir.

Very well, then.

He is a veterinary surgeon, a farrier, and a horsebreaker.

Give me your definition of a horse.

Girl number 20 unable to define a horse!

Girl number 20 possessed of no facts, in reference to one of the commonest of animals!

Some boy's definition of a horse. Bitzer, yours.

His cold eyes would hardly have been eyes, but for the...

..which, by bringing them into immediate contrast with something...

..expressed their form.

His hair might have been...

His skin was...

Bitzer, your definition of a horse.

Quadruped. Graminivorous.

Forty teeth, namely twenty-four grinders, four eye-teeth, and twelve incisive.

Sheds coat in the spring; in marshy countries, sheds hoofs, too.

Hoofs hard, but requiring to be shod with iron.

Age known by marks in mouth.

Now girl number 20, you know what a horse is.

The character of Gradgrind

pushes his idea of why facts are the only thing

that is essential to living a life.

Now, what I want is Facts.

'In trying to, basically, fill up the minds of these little children in front of him,'

Gradgrind pushes out his theory of facts is all, facts is everything.

Facts alone are wanted in life.

Plant nothing else, and root out everything else.

'We realise very quickly on that little Sissy's father is somebody who works with horses.

'So Sissy's knowledge of the horse would probably be very good.'

Being put under the spotlight and pushed quite hard by this strong, stern, dark, foreboding man,

'she seems to struggle at the concept of answering the question, what is a horse?

-'And, in doing so, is cast aside.'

-Bitzer, yours.

'Gradgrind will turn to Bitzer, who will provide the factual information as to what is a horse.'

Quadruped. Graminivorous.

'Poor Sissy, her idea, and probably knowledge, of what a horse is,'

a thing of beauty, power, muscular brilliance,

and an animal that can be loved and cherished, has been swept away.

I think today we might need to think about how in our education we do need a balance

between what is factual and maybe what is real and what is imaginary.

What is in our soul, what allows us to develop as characters, as human beings.

Now girl number 20, you know what a horse is.

What's up, blud?

Let me show you something.

That's my last duchess painted on the wall

Looking as if she were alive

I call that piece a wonder now

Fra Pandolf's hands Worked busily a day

And there she stands

Will't please you sit and look at her?

I said, "Fra Pandolf" by design

For never read strangers like you that pictured countenance

The depth and passion of its earnest glance

But to myself they turned

Since none puts by the curtain I have drawn for you, but I

And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst

How such a glance came there

So, not the first Are you to turn and ask thus

Sir, 'twas not her husband's presence

Only called that spot of joy into the Duchess' cheek

Perhaps Fra Pandolf chanced to say

"Her mantle laps over my lady's wrist too much"

or "Paint must never hope to reproduce the faint half-flush

"That dies along her throat"

Such stuff was courtesy, she thought

And cause enough for calling up that spot of joy

She had a heart

How shall I say?

Too soon made glad,

Too easily impressed

She liked whate'er she looked on

And her looks went everywhere

Sir, 'twas all one!

My favor at her breast,

The dropping of the daylight in the West,

The bough of cherries some officious fool

Broke in the orchard for her

The white mule she rode with round the terrace

All and each would draw from her alike the approving speech

Or blush, at least.

She thanked men good!

But thanked

Somehow I know not how

As if she ranked my gift

of a nine-hundred-years-old name With anybody's gift.

Who'd stoop to blame This sort of trifling?

Even had you skill In speech which I have not

To make your will Quite clear to such a one, to say,

"Just this or that in you disgusts me

"Here you miss, or there exceed the mark"

And if she let herself be lessoned so

Nor plainly set her wits to yours, forsooth, and give excuse,

E'en then would be some stooping

And I choose never to stoop.

Oh sir,

She smiled, no doubt, Whene'er I passed her

But who passed without Much the same smile?

This grew

I gave commands

Then all smiles stopped together

There she stands as if alive

Will't please you rise?

We'll meet the company below, then

I repeat,

The Count your master's known munificence is ample warrant

that no just pretense of mine for dowry will be disallowed

Though his fair daughter's self, as I avowed

At starting, will be my object

Nay we'll go together down, sir

Notice Neptune,

Taming a sea-horse,

Though thought a rarity, which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me!

HE LAUGHS

Michael, thanks for coming in to see me.

That's my last duchess painted on the wall

Looking as if she were alive

I call that piece a wonder now

Fra Pandolf's hands worked busily a day, and there she stands

Will't please you sit and look at her?

I said, "Fra Pandolf" by design,

For never read strangers such as you that pictured countenance,

The depth and passion of its earnest glance,

But to myself they turned

Since none puts by the curtain I have drawn for you, but I

And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst,

How such a glance came there

So, not the first Are you to turn and ask thus

Sir,

'Twas not her husband's presence only

Called that spot of joy into the Duchess' cheek

Perhaps Fra Pandolf chanced to say

"Her mantle laps over my lady's wrist too much,"

or "Paint

"Must never hope to reproduce

"the faint half-flush that dies along her throat"

Such stuff was courtesy, she thought

And cause enough for calling up that spot of joy.

She had a heart how shall I say?

Too soon made glad, Too easily impressed

She liked whate'er she looked on

And her looks went everywhere

Sir, 'twas all one!

My favor at her breast,

The dropping of the daylight in the West

The bough of cherries some officious fool

Broke in the orchard for her

The white mule she rode with round the terrace

All and each would draw from her alike the approving speech

Or blush, at least

She thanked men good!

But thanked somehow I know not how as if she ranked my gift

Of a nine-hundred-years-old name

With anybody's gift

Who'd stoop to blame This sort of trifling?

Even had you skill in speech which I have not to make your will

Quite clear to such an one, and say,

"Just this Or that in you disgusts me

"Or here you miss, Or there exceed the mark"

And even if she let Herself be lessoned so,

Nor plainly set her wits to yours, forsooth, and give excuse,

E'en then would be some stooping;

And I choose never to stoop

Oh sir,

She smiled, no doubt, Whene'er I passed her;

But who passed without Much the same smile?

This grew

I gave commands

Then all smiles stopped together

There she stands

As if alive

Will't please you rise?

We'll meet the company below, then

I repeat,

The Count your master's known munificence

Is ample warrant that no just pretense

Of mine for dowry will be disallowed

Though his fair daughter's self, as I avowed

At starting, is my object

Nay we'll go together down, sir

Notice Neptune, though, Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity,

Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me!

It's a poem about a very controlling and dominating man.

The poem tells the story of his wife's murder.

-Let me show you something.

-'But the murder is implied.'

That's my last duchess painted on the wall

Looking as if she were alive

'Robert Browning has structured the poem as a dramatic monologue.'

You almost feel as if the voice in the poem, the Duke,

is speaking to you and confessing what he's done to you.

'But there is an implied listener to the poem. An envoy listening in absolute abject horror.

'The fact that he can speak about the death of a young woman

in such a measured manner makes this one of the most sinister,

threatening poems I've read in a long time.

I gave commands

Then all smiles stopped together

'If you turn on the television and you watch any soap, or any film even,'

they often deal with the idea of relationships that turn sour for a variety of reasons.

A man who can't accept the fact that his wife is beautiful and vivacious

and is admired by others and takes steps to try and control her behaviour.

She liked whate'er she looked on

And her looks went everywhere

Although it was a cold day on November 19th 1863,

I did not feel the chill.

True, I was well wrapped up in a borrowed coat and cap

but it was the excitement that kept me warm.

The mere thought of laying eyes on the great man.

The man who had led the North's great army for these last two years against the Confederates

made me swell up with pride.

It had only been four months since the battle on this field

had taken so many thousands of our proud soldiers.

-APPLAUSE

-We knew the Southern slave-owning states wanted to leave the Union

which would have torn our great country apart.

President Lincoln wanted to stop that and if I'd been a few years older,

I would have fought myself for such a great cause.

Four score and seven years ago

our fathers brought forth from this continent, a new nation,

conceived in Liberty,

and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.

Now we are engaged in a great civil war,

testing whether that nation,

or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure.

We are met on a great battlefield of that war.

We come to dedicate a portion of it,

as a final resting place for those who died here that the nation might live.

But, in a larger sense, we can not dedicate - we can not consecrate -

we can not hallow this ground.

The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here,

have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract.

The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here,

while it can never forget what they did here.

APPLAUSE

It is, rather for us the living,

to be dedicated here to the unfinished work

which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced.

It is rather for us

to be dedicated here to the great task remaining before us -

that from these honoured dead, we take increased devotion to that cause

for which they gave their last full measure of devotion -

that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain - that the nation,

under God, shall have a new birth of freedom -

and that the government of the people, by the people, and for the people,

shall not perish from the earth.

APPLAUSE

We all felt honoured to be at Gettysburg that day in the presence of the President.

The faces of those around me, so full of pride, told the story.

It was as if we knew we were witnessing a great moment in our country's history.

We travelled to Gettysburg to see the man who had taken us to war.

I wanted him to tell us if it had been worth my husband's life.

And the lives of thousands of our young men from both North and South.

I took the children with me because I wanted them to understand what had happened.

Even if I could not myself.

John Jr was still finding it hard.

He missed his father.

The war had gone on for two long years

and many of us had doubts about whether it was really worth fighting.

If the Southern states wanted to break away from the Union, maybe that was their right.

Was it really worth Americans killing Americans?

Was it worth my husband's life?

APPLAUSE

Four score and seven years ago

our fathers brought forth from this continent, a new nation,

conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to the proposition

that all men are created equal.

Now we are engaged in a great civil war,

testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure.

We are met on a great battlefield of that war.

We come to dedicate a portion of it,

as a final resting place for those who died here that the nation might live.

But, in a larger sense,

we can not dedicate - we can not consecrate -

we can not hallow this ground.

The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it,

far above our poor power to add or detract.

The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here,

while it can never forget what they did here.

It is for us the living,

to be dedicated here to the unfinished work

which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced.

It is rather for us to be dedicated

to the great task remaining before us

that from these honoured dead, we take increased devotion to that cause

for which they gave the last full measure of devotion

that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain -

that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom -

and that the government of the people, by the people and for the people,

shall not perish from the earth.

Many of us stood quietly after his speech.

Silent in our thoughts of those who we had lost.

His words did nothing to ease our sadness.

I could see disappointment on the faces of those who had lost loved ones.

Go, lovely Rose

Tell her that wastes her time and me

That now she knows

When I resemble her to thee

How sweet and fair she seems to be

Tell her that's young

And shuns to have her graces spied

That hadst thou sprung

In deserts where no men abide

Thou must have uncommended died

Small is the worth

Of beauty from the light retired

Bid her come forth

Suffer herself to be desired

And not blush so to be admired

Then die

That she

The common fate of all things rare

May read in thee

How small a part of time they share

That are so wondrous sweet and fair!

GO, lovely Rose

Tell her that wastes her time and me, That now she knows

When I resemble her to thee, How sweet and fair she seems to be

Tell her that's young, And shuns to have her graces spied

That hadst thou sprung In deserts where no men abide

Thou must have uncommended died

Small is the worth Of beauty from the light retired

Bid her come forth Suffer herself to be desired

And not blush so to be admired

Then die

That she The common fate of all things rare

May read in thee

How small a part of time they share

That are so wondrous sweet and fair!

The Edmund Waller poem, Go, Lovely Rose.

There was a feeling that maybe

he was writing this from a bitter viewpoint or there was a bit of anger, resentment.

But, we try to play it more sensitive.

And, the man plays it, very much someone who's been knocked back.

And who is maybe feeling that he's not gonna get anywhere with this girl

but is determined to keep trying.

That's why he's sending her the poem, that's why he's sending her the rose.

To try and make her come out of herself and join in the world and come and have a party.

Don't stay at home doing your homework every night.

Bid her come forth

Suffer herself to be desired

And not blush so to be admired

And then we wanted to do a version that was a bit more bitter.

And thought about what would it sound like

if a young woman was to read that poem.

Small is the worth Of beauty from the light retired

Bid her come forth Suffer herself to be desired

When the girl reads this poem, you can see she's really angry about this.

Everybody's chasing this girl, even though she's not doing very much. Why's that?

Then die

That she The common fate of all things rare

May read in thee

How small a part of time they share

That are so wondrous sweet and fair!

GUNFIRE

What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?

Only the monstrous anger of guns

Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle

Can patter out their hasty orisons

No mockeries now for them

No prayers nor bells

Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs

The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells

And bugles calling for them from sad shires

What candles may be held to speed them all?

Not in the hands of boys but in their eyes

Shall shine the holy glimmer of goodbyes

The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall

Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds

And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.

CHURCH BELLS TOLL

What passing-bells for those who die as cattle?

Only the monstrous anger of guns

Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle

Can patter out their hasty orisons.

No mockeries now for them

No prayers nor bells

Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs

The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells

And bugles calling for them from sad shires

What candles may be held to speed them all?

Not in the hands of boys but in their eyes shall shine

The holy glimmers of goodbyes

The pallor of girls' brows will be their pall

Their flowers

The tenderness of patient minds

And each slow dusk

A drawing-down of blinds.

The poem is remarkable for the two quite different moods

which it manages to convey.

In the first section of the poem,

there is a great sense of sound, of fury and of anger.

Only the monstrous anger of guns

Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle

Can patter out their hasty orisons

Which helps to create a sense of the noise of battle, the clatter and roar and the wail.

No mockeries now for them

No prayers nor bells

Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs

The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells

And bugles calling for them from sad shires

In the second half of the poem,

we see Owen setting out what he sees as the fitting remembrance.

The tears of boys, the pale faces of girls,

forming a gentle, loving remembrance of those who died in the war.

What candles may be held to speed them all?

Not in the hands of boys but in their eyes shall shine

The holy glimmers of goodbyes

GUNFIRE

If I should die

Think only this of me

That there's some corner of a foreign field

That is forever England

There shall be, in that rich earth

A richer dust concealed

A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware

Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam

A body of England's, breathing English air

Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home

And think, this heart

All evil shed away

A pulse in the eternal mind, no less

Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given

Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day

And laughter, learnt of friends, and gentleness

In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.

If I should die

Think only this of me

That there's some corner of a foreign field that is forever England

There shall be in that rich earth a richer dust concealed

A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,

Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam

A body of England's, breathing English air

Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home

And think, this heart

All evil shed away

A pulse in the eternal mind, no less

Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given

Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day

And laughter, learnt of friends

And gentleness

In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.

The first part of the sonnet is, very much, a hymn to England.

And, it is also followed by what many people think is a quite arrogant line,

that the dust of his body will enrich the dust of a foreign field.

I think if I was somebody who lived in the Commonwealth, or perhaps lived in France,

I might have an argument with the fact that an Englishman's body made it a better place.

There shall be in that rich earth a richer dust concealed.

The poem ends with a very strong statement of Brooke's Englishness

with his love of country and, maybe a message of hope for those who died,

that those who have gone will be at peace and under an English heaven.

ie that God is an Englishman which was a very, very common idea at the time.

In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.

-Oh, hello.

-Hello.

-Coffee and a muffin, please.

-You can indeed.

Who will believe my verse in time to come

If it were fill'd with your most high deserts?

Though yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tomb

Which hides your life and shows not half your parts

If I could write the beauty of your eyes

And in fresh numbers number all your graces

The age to come would say, "This poet lies

"Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces."

So should my papers yellow'd with their age

Be scorn'd like old men of less truth than tongue

And your true rights be term'd a poet's rage

And stretched metre of an antique song

But were some child of yours alive that time

You should live twice; in it and in my rhyme.

Who will believe my verse in time to come if it were fill'd with your most high deserts?

Though yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tomb which hides your life and shows not half your parts.

If I could write the beauty of your eyes and in fresh numbers number all your graces,

the age to come would say, "This poet lies: Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces."

So should my papers yellow'd with their age be scorn'd like old men of less truth than tongue

And your true rights be term'd a poet's rage

And stretched metre of an antique song

But were some child of yours alive that time

You should live twice; in it and my rhyme.

You can have different ways of talking to people about how you fancy them.

So, we had the young lad doing a very, kind of,

jokey, um, teasing, you know,

clearly, you're not quite sure if he's absolutely serious.

Who will believe my verse in time to come, if it were fill'd with your most high deserts?

Though yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tomb which hides your life and shows not half your parts.

And then we also did a version with a young girl.

When she talks, he doesn't even know what she's saying.

He doesn't know she's saying this poem. Her delivery is much more sensitive.

You get a feeling that she really meant what she was saying and she really was in love with him.

Who will believe my verse in time to come

If it were fill'd with your most high deserts?

Though yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tomb

Which hides your life and shows not half your parts.

This fearsome burn, horseback brown

His rollrock highroad roaring down

In coop and in comb the fleece of his foam

Flutes and low to the lake falls home

A windpuff-bonnet of fawn-froth

Turns and twindles over the broth

Of a pool so pitchblack, fell-frowning

It rounds and rounds Despair to drowning

Degged with dew, dappled with dew

Are the groins of the braes that the brook runs through

Wiry heathpacks, flitches of fern

And the beadbonny ash that sits over the burn

What would the world be, once bereft

Of wet and of wildness? Let them be left

O let them be left, the wildness and wet

Long live the weeds and the wilderness yet.

There's so much to love about Inversnaid, the poem.

First of all, it's difficult to believe it was written nearly 130 years ago.

It feels so alive and vibrant.

The thing to me about the best poetry

is the language crackles and sparkles off the page.

And reading this poem, even if you don't really know what it's about,

I just love hearing the words spoken.

"Rollrock highroad roaring down", it's just beautiful.

For me, the beauty of poetry is

the ability of the poet in describing something to make a word up to describe it.

For example, "twindles".

That doesn't exist in any dictionary but I know exactly what Hopkins was talking about

when he talks about things turning and twindling.

It's beautiful, again, it's the sound of language.

Cos if you stand and listen for a minute,

you're hearing nature.

He was hearing nature,

so it was only natural that he would want us to hear those sounds and create new words.

A lot of great artists have taken their inspiration from nature.

And, although as a species we're trying to do our best to completely ruin nature and the countryside,

I can't imagine this poem would be any more relevant than it is today.

This very day.

When we're talking about conservation, when we're caring about our planet.

Standing here and experiencing the natural beauty, the anger

of nature, alongside the beauty of nature.

I can't imagine it could be any more relevant than it is today.

Also, on a beautiful day like this.

Gerard Manley Hopkins, that's why they called him "manly".

He was out here on cold days, writing poetry.

That's manly.

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