Caleb, I recently heard a terrific tale involving this poem. Michael Donaghy, an American poet who resides in England, worked as a doorman on the upper east side of Manhattan, hailing cabs for the likes of Pavarotti, or in his own phrase, "finding a vehicle for the tenor." Doormen were prohibited to read on the job, so he hid his Hopkins in his hat. One day he doffed it to a swank lady who spied the contraband and recited this poem. She then took him up to her apartment and dialed the 92nd St. Y, from whom she bought him a season's subscription. This was in the early 70's, and Michael became a poet, one of our best.
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