Tis the Season. . .

Not much time for a “real” post, but the weather outside and the general melancholy of the season have reminded me of some of my favorite lines from the most Franciscan of Jesuit poets. So here they are.

Spring and Fall

to a young child

MÁRGARÉT, áre you gríeving
Over Goldengrove unleaving?
Leáves, líke the things of man, you
With your fresh thoughts care for, can you?
Áh! ás the heart grows older
It will come to such sights colder
By and by, nor spare a sigh
Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie;
And yet you wíll weep and know why.
Now no matter, child, the name:
Sórrow’s spríngs áre the same.
Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed
What heart heard of, ghost guessed:
It ís the blight man was born for,
It is Margaret you mourn for.

Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844–89). Poems. 1918.

Sigh. Now I’m going to have to read all of Hopkins’ poems again and probably won’t be able to stop. So can you - if you go here.

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