Peace, Wild Wooddove

That last post reminded me of one of my favorite poems, Gerard Manley Hopkins' "Peace":

When will you ever, Peace, wild wooddove, shy wings shut,   

Your round me roaming end, and under be my boughs? 

When, when, Peace, will you, Peace? I’ll not play hypocrite      

To own my heart: I yield you do come sometimes; but   

That piecemeal peace is poor peace. What pure peace allows             

Alarms of wars, the daunting wars, the death of it?        


O surely, reaving Peace, my Lord should leave in lieu   

Some good! And so he does leave Patience exquisite,    

That plumes to Peace thereafter. And when Peace here does house        

He comes with work to do, he does not come to coo,             

He comes to brood and sit.