Finals loomed ahead of us; we enslaved ourselves to the cause and our manners became agitated and testy. At this point of breakdown a wise professor lead us from the artificially lit classroom to the balcony. We sat on grass, the sun reflecting the proof of God’s glory on the gilded roof of the Doom of the Rock. Our mole eyes retracted, blinded with true daylight we had not seen for days. In times of stress, instructed Professor Seeley, we have two options: fall in love or read poetry. He did the later and read the prologue to the Canterbury Tales, “God’s Grandeur” by Gerard Manly Hopkins and “Jerusalem” by William Blake. With the melodious meters of English poets as our soundtrack we pulled the grass up with our hands to smell the sweet scent of moist, rich spring and viewed the city that still holds a part of my soul captive today. It’s springtime in Jerusalem, the celebration of Easter and Seder; pick the better half.

Looking back I do not remember my finals but this moment; tracing the ancient walls with my eyes desperately trying to seer the image in my mind. This week as finals loom ahead again I find myself tunneled in my bed with the artificial light of my lamp. I then remember Professor Seeley’s wise advice and I quietly scamper on the fire escape with only a thin layer of tights to provide warmth. I see my breath build particles of dew drops in the air. Looking out on the city of London I recite the poem that linked my personal pilgrimage from the Holy Land to London:

And did those feet in ancient time,
Walk upon England’s mountains green
And was the holy Lamb of God,
On England’s pleasant pastures seen
And did the Countenance Divine,
Shine forth upon our clouded hills?
And was Jerusalem builded here,
Among these dark Satanic Mills?

Bring me my Bow of burning gold;
Bring me my Arrows of desire:
Bring me my Spear: O clouds unfold:
Bring me my Chariot of fire!
I will not cease from Mental Fight,
Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand,
Till we have built Jerusalem,
In England’s green and pleasant Land.

I prophecy I will not remember the finals that will take place in the next few days. I will recall perching on the cold fire escape reciting William Blake tracing the brick of the city I adore. I will choose the better part.

The Grandeur of God

Hopkins

The world is charged with the grandeur of God.
It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;
It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil
Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod?
Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;
And all is seared with trade; Bleared, smeared with toil;
And wears man's smudge and shares man's smell: the soil
Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.


And for all this, nature is never spent;
There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;
And though the last lights off the black West went
Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs —
Because the Holy Ghost over the bent
World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings