Gerard Manley Hopkins, interred
Two lifelengths long in loathèd Irish sod,
Somehow through the raked pebbles heard
A tourist throng his verse applaud.
Straining, he understood the docent say
That he’d been superstitious,
unpublished, bipolar, gay.
Born later, he’d have had his wishes;
Fame, sprung rhythms (think of rap!),
Love for man without the monkish trap.
He thought: this is the end I always mourned for;
This is the blight that I was born for.